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HOMESPUN;   OK,    FIVE   AND 
TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 


THOMAS    LACKLAND. 


'  Happy  he  whom  neither  wealth  nor  fashion. 
Nor  the  march  of  the  encroaching  city, 

Drives  an  exile 
From  the  hearth  of  his  ancestral  homestead. 

We  may  build  more  splendid  habitations, 

Fill  our  rooms  with  paintings  and  with  sculptuiea. 

But  we  cannot 
Buy  with  gold  the  old  associations." 


"  Hoc  est 
Vivere  bis,  vita  posse  priore  frui." 


F.pigr.  XXII.  10. 


NEW   YORK: 
PUBLISHED   BY   HURD   AND   HOUGHTON 

459  BKOOME  STREET. 
1867. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1867,  by 

KURD  AND  HOUGHTON, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of 
New  York 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE: 

EREOTYPED    AND    PRINTED 
H.    0.    HOUGHTON   AND   COMPANY. 


PS 


CONTENTS. 


PAQB 
PREFACE 7 


BOOK  L  — PENATES. 

THRESHOLDS 11 

FIEE  ON  THE  HEARTH 15 

RAINY  DAYS 28 

GARDEN  WORK 37 

SUNDAY  IN  THE   COUNTRY 49 

HUCKLEBERRYING .  .65 

BARN  LIFE 78 

A  MORNING  AT  THE  BROOK 93 

OUR  AUNT 103 

AUTUMN  DAYS 113 

THANKSGIVING 123 

HARD   WINTERS 134 

ONLY  A  LITTLE 146 


BOOK  II.  — VICINAGE. 

THE   TOWN  MEETING 151 

THE   COUNTRY   STORE   .  .  161 


iv  CONTENTS. 

PAQI 

THE   COUNTRY  TAVERN 171 

THE   COUNTRY   MUSTER 185 

THE   COUNTY   FAIR  . 196 

THE   COUNTRY   MINISTER 206 

THE   COUNTRY  DOCTOR 221 

THE  COUNTRY  LAWYER          .,_.,...  234 

THE   COUNTRY  POSTMASTER 245 

THE  POOR-HOUSE 254 

THE   DISTRICT   SCHOOL 265 

COCKCROW 275 


BOOK  III.  —  BUCOLICS. 

A  DAY'S  WORK  ON  THE  FARM 283 

FARMERS'  WIVES 295 

FARMERS'  DAUGHTERS 306 

FARMERS'  SONS ,  319 

THE  HIRED  MAN 330 

THE  TURKEY  NEST 342 


PREFACE. 


TT  has  always  fallen  to  the  lot  of  Royal 
•  Families  to  have  their  historians  and 
chroniclers,  but  to  Farmers  and  plain  Coun- 
try People  never.  We  have  graceful  descrip- 
tions of  the  Alhambra,  as  well  as  the  history 
of  Hampton  Court,  Pitti  Palace,  the  Kremlin, 
and  the  famous  Halls  of  the  Montezumas ; 
but  few  or  no  pens  are  put  to  service  on  be- 
half of  the  Farm-house,  the  Homestead,  and 
the  Rustic  Cottage. 

Much  has  been  written  and  read,  too,  of 
the  Boulevards  and  Rotten  Row,  of  the  Strand 
and  the  Corso ;  but  little  enough  of  quiet 
country  roads,  sequestered  green  lanes,  cart- 
tracks  through  the  woods,  and  winding  foot- 
paths across  the  pasture-lands. 


vi  PEEFA  CE. 

On  the  historic  page,  the  Field  of  the  Cloth 
of  Gold  makes  a  brilliant  episode  indeed ; 
but  while  Homespun  performs  the  actual  ser- 
v&e,  little  or  nothing  is  said  about  that. 
The  ancient  Golden  Fleece  has  been  liber- 
ally talked  about  in  mythologic  history;  our 
Golden  Fleece  is  genuine  Homespun,  and 
that  only.  And  we  find,  too,  in  the  Greek 
story  a  great  deal  said  in  praise  of  the  wife 
of  Ulysses,  because  she  pursued  her  spinning 
with  such  ceaseless  industry;  but  an  exceed- 
ingly small  measure  of  panegyric  is  heaped 
on  the  good  dames  in  our  farm-houses  of 
thirty  years  ago,  because  they  stood  at  their 
wheels  and  spun  the  thread  at  home  with 
such  patience  and  faith. 

It  gives  us  a  special  delight  to  reflect  that 
some  of  our  greatest  men  were  men  of  genu- 
ine homespun,  —  altogether  domestic  and  sim- 
ple in  their  character.  Bred  in  the  heart  and 
centre  of  strong  domestic  influences,  they  held 
on  by  them  affectionately  to  the  last.  Web- 
ster wrote  home  from  Washington,  while 
carrying  on  his  broad  shoulders  the  burdens 


PREFACE.  vii 

of  the  State  Department,  for  some  of  those 
beans  to  bake  which  he  thought  could  be  got 
nowhere  out  of  New  England.  Jefferson's 
"  Garden  Book  "  lets  us  fully  into  the  secret 
of  his  devotion  to  home,  as  his  familiar  let- 
ters to  his  daughters  disclose  his  longings  for 
an  early  return  to  its  sincere  pleasures.  John 
Taylor  of  Caroline  dressed  in  the  native 
homespun  throughout  his  public  career,  his 
character  remaining  to  the  last  the  very  touch- 
stone of  simplicity  and  truthfulness. 

The  history  of  a  household  is  as  well  worth 
writing  as  that  of  a  kingdom,  any  day. 
Household  economy  is  the  hint  and  germ 
of  the  science  of  political  economy  itself. 
We  do  not  see  why  it  is  not  as  distinctive 
a  mark  of  character  to  be  born  in  homespun 
as  "  in  the  purple " ;  and  it  is  certain  that 
more  valuable  men  have  emerged  from  the 
former  than  from  the  latter. 

A  dusty  realm  indeed  must  be  the  human 
heart  that  loves  the  "World  better  than  Home 
—  politeness  rather  than  truth  —  others  more 
than  its  own.  The  man  in  whom  the  do- 


vm  PREFACE. 

mestic  feeling  awaits  development,  is  yet  to 
discover  the  other  hemisphere  of  his  being. 
Home-life  and  home-love  are  English,  —  ex- 
clusive and  nowise  cosmopolitan ;  they  take 
hold  of  the  soil  itself,  and,  like  ivy  and  roses, 
climb  to  the  very  roof-tree.  Until  a  man  is 
fairly  domesticated,  he  has  not  got  a  footing ; 
he  has  not  yet  become  his  own,  but  is  still 
another's ;  he  is  locked  out  from  the  enjoy- 
ment of  wealth  of  which  he  is  the  rightful 
owner,  unaware  all  the  while  that  he  carries 
the  key  in  his  own  hand. 


BOOK  FIRST. 


PENATES. 


M  Invent  portum.    Spes  etfortuna,  valete ;  • 
Sat  me  lusisti,  ludite  nunc  alios." 


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^         M   ,        j^       -^ 


THRESHOLDS. 

WHEN  I  meet  a  person  from  the  country 
in  the  Bedlam  of  the  streets,  I  am 
straightway  carried  back  to  the  orchards  and 
clover-fields,  to  meadows  and  running  brooks. 
At  once  I  hear  calves  bleat  in  their  pens,  and 
cattle  low  on  the  hill-side  pastures.  I  roam  in 
big  barns,  thread  path-streaked  timber  strips, 
and  catch  the  cheery  sound  of  cock-crow  in 
the  morning. 

All  objects  are  so  suggestive.  My  friend 
carries  about  him  the  scents  of  hay  and  huckle- 
berry pastures,  as  well  as  hints  of  fresh  butter 
and  cheese.  In  him  seem  to  be  mysteriously 
bound  up  the  most  delightfully  homelike  asso- 
ciations, as  in  the  thumbed  leaves  of  some  dear 
old  book.  The  low  and  broad  roof,  milk-pans 
set  against  the  wall  in  the  sun,  a  row  of  hives 
in  the  sheltered  corner  of  the  little  garden, 
apple-trees  blushing  with  blossoms  and  musi- 
cal with  bees,  doves  cooing  and  hens  cackling 
about  the  yard,  winter  fires  of  good  oak  and 


12  HOMESPUN. 

hickory  on  the  hearth,  —  pictures  like  these  all 
hang,  in  my  thought,  about  my  country  friend, 
like  the  very  clothes  he  has  on,  and  I  feel  as 
if  I  must  stop  him  short  and  ask  him  how  he 
left  the  folks  at  home. 

When  the  country  dweller  goes  about  build- 
ing his  house,  the  first  thing  he  looks  for,  after 
digging  his  cellar,  is  a  door-stone.  Well  do 
his  far-sighted  instincts  tell  him  how  smoothly 
the  feet  of  gladness  and  grief  will  wear  it ;  what 
light  spirits  are  to  trip  across  it  as  they  enter, 
and  what  heavy  burdens  may  be  carried  forth 
in  the  coming  days  of  sorrow  and  separation. 

The  entrance  to  a  man's  house  gives  to  the 
outside  world  much  of  the  expression  of  his 
domestic  life.  He  comes  out  on  his  doorstep 
in  the  moist  April  sunsets  to  listen  to  the  chir- 
rup of  the  first  robin  in  the  apple-tree,  or  catch 
the  pipings  of  the  early  frogs  in  the  marshy 
corner  of  the  home  lot.  He  gives  open-handed 
welcomes  at  this  point,  and  here  he  bids  fare- 
well. The  eldest  daughter — just  married  — 
steps  over  it  on  the  blithe  June  morning, — 
and  the  dead  child  is  lifted  across  in  the  sad 
afternoon  of  October.  They  all  cluster  upon 
it,  at  fhe  return  of  the  annual  Thanksgiving ; 
and  in  the  Sunday  mornings  of  summer  they 
gather  there,  snapping  off  the  spikes  of  lilac 


THRESHOLDS.  13 

blossoms  while  they  wait  for  the  two-horse 
wagon  to  drive  up  and  carry  them  to  meeting. 

I  have,  before  now,  unexpectedly  come  upon 
cellars  of  old  country  houses  that  have  long 
ago  disappeared  from  the  landscape ;  the  walls 
fallen  in  and  mantled  with  weeds ;  no  relic  of 
a  chimney  standing;  the  smooth  door-stone 
gone  ;  nettles  and  chokeweeds  growing  luxuri- 
antly in  the  pit ;  dead  and  drear  silence  brood- 
ing over  the  spot:  —  and  I  think  that  neither 
Marius  at  Carthage  nor  Gibbon  at  ruined 
Rome  could  have  felt,  in  their  way,  the  grief 
of  a  sadder  desolation.  It  must  be  a  heart 
unused  to  its  own  self  that  can  confront  such 
sights  unstirred. 

The  streak  of  a  path  through  the  grass 

to  the  well  now  choked  and  dry ;  the  apple-trees 
stinted,  decayed,  and  blotched  with  cankering 
mosses ;  here  and  there  a  stone  from  the  ruined 
cellar  wall  lying  as  it  was  thrown  out ;  clumps 
of  wljite  birches  and  alders  crowding  down  to 
the  brink ;  no  smoke  curling  above  a  bright 
hearth-stone ;  no  faces  eagerly  pressed  against 
window  panes;  no  feet  of  children  to  make 
little  prints  about  the  door;  nothing  but  a 
silence  utterly  voiceless  all  around;  —  a  Coli- 
seum in  ruins  cannot  move  the  heart  like  this 
wreck  of  what  was  once  a  Home.  None  of 


14  HOMESPUN. 

the  fallen  arches,  fragmentary  columns,  crum- 
bling viaducts,  or  deserted  London  bridges  could 
possibly  suggest  the  outlines  of  a  sadder  story. 
The  single  cat-bird,  mewing  in  the  alders  then, 
is  more  eloquent  than  the  best  inspired  pens  of 
History.  Nature  herself  laments  the  end  of  the 
little  drama,  and  with  leaves  and  vines  and 
greenest  grasses  hastens  to  throw  over  decay 
itself  an  expression  of  pathetic  beauty. 

If  a  Home  in  ruins  excites  feelings  of  such 
sort  as  this,  —  how  easy  to  call  back  to  life 
again  the  soul  of  a  happiness  now  buried 
under  the  snows  of  many  a  winter's  absence, 
which  dwelt  within  walls  that  are  still  stand- 
ing, and  hallowed  a  spot  to  which  the  heart 
will  remain  loyal  so  long  as  it  beats  in  the 
breast. 

But  thresholds  are  not  broad,  nor  are 

people  wont  to  tarry  long  upon  them  :  —  they 
are  but  for  passing  over.  What  is  to  be  seen 
within, — what  simple  sort  of  life  growg  and 
ripens  through  the  summers  and  winters  from 
attic  to  cellar  and  from  the  front  gate  to  the 
pasture  bars,  we  will  straightway  go  in  and  be- 
hold for  ourselves  :  and  on  this  threshold  of  the 
whole  matter  let  me  take  you  by  the  hand, 
gentle  reader,  and  conduct  you  along. 


FIEE  ON  THE  HEARTH. 

HOW  little  seems  the  gate,  and  how  low 
the  wall,  to  the  one  who  went  out  but 
yesterday  a  Boy  from  home,  and  comes  back 
again  to-day  a  Man !  There  are  few  illusions 
with  which  the  years  delight  to  make  such 
cruel  havoc  as  with  these  of  our  youth. 

Yet  the  fireplace  is  just  as  wide,  and  the 
wooden  mantel  as  high,  as  when  the  tea-kettle 
used  to  sing  on  the  hob  in  the  still  winter  af- 
ternoons, and  the  old  folks  sat  with  the  hick- 
ory blaze  shining  straight  into  their  faces. 
There  may  have  been  a  revolution  in  the 
house,  —  lifting  up  the  ceiling,  pushing  back 
the  partitions,  and  letting  in  larger  windows, 
—  but  it  is  very 'pleasant  to  know  that  by  the 
old  hearth  the  old  memories  are  kept  sound 
and  whole ;  that  if  they  are  driven  down  from 
the  twilight  of  the  garret,  from  the  stillness  of 
the  chambers,  and  even  out  of  the  favorite 
keeping-room,  they  retreat  as  by  instinct  to 
the  hearthstone,  where  they  swarm  once  more 


16  HOMESPUN. 

in  the  cheery  fire-blaze  before  flitting  on  clouds 
of  smoke  up  the  chimney,  skyward. 

The  choicest  woods  to  lay  across  the  and- 
irons are  hickory  and  ash ;  they  split  clean  and 
clear,  the  blaze  they  give  forth  is  a  transparent 
blaze,  and  the  bed  of  coals  they  make  is  hard 
and  heaping.  We  can  sit  and  look  into  a 
mass  of  these  ruddy  coals  for  a  whole  even- 
ing, and  feel  comforted.  It  is  Tennyson  who 
calls  for  a  bed  of  such  when  he  says  — 

"  Bring  in  great  logs  and  let  them  lie, 
To  make  a  solid  core  of  heat." 

We  are  all  of  us  natural  fire-worshippers,  — 
as  much  so  as  the  Parsees  themselves.  These 
devotees  never  proffered  more  genuine  adora- 
tion to  the  flames  in  which  they  saw  the  Soul 
of  Light,  nor  did  Incas  below  the  tropics  ever 
pay  faithfuller  homage  to  the  great  Sun-source 
of  existence  on  solstitial  mornings,  than  does 
the  bleak  man  of  bleak  New  England,  in  his 
inmost  heart,  to  the  honest  blaze  that  glows 
and  flickers  over  his  hearth.  There  may  be  no 
feeling  of  idolatry  in  his  love  for  the  open  fire, 
—  but  his  spirit  does  daily  and  nightly  offer 
secret  sacrifice  at  its  shrine,  and  in  the  dancing 
flames  repeats  its  homebred  litany. 

They  used  to  say  in  the  old  Virginia  man- 
sions that  a  good  bright  fire  was  the  handsom- 


FIRE   ON  THE  HEARTH.  17 

est  piece  of  furniture  in  the  room ;  but,  alas 
for  it !  the  open  door  opposite  was  allowed 
to  let  the  whole  expression  of  comfort  through. 
What  can  a  house  be  without  a  fire  on  the 
hearth  ;  and,  above  all,  a  house  in  the  country  ? 
It  is  difficult  to  think  of  Home  without  kind- 
ling up  a  pleasant  hearth-blaze  with  the  thought. 
We  search  for  the  harmless  shadows  wander- 
ing up  and  down  the  walls ;  for  the  auroral 
flashes  pulsing  across  the  little  panes  in  the 
windows,  and  making  the  home  -  sentiment 
legible.  Without  these,  every  room  beneath 
the  roof  is  populous  with  swarthy  and  repul- 
sive images. 

Fire  is  so  social.  It  has  such  playful  and 
tender  sympathies,  though  its  tongue  be  hot 
and  fierce,  and  its  maw  ravenous.  In  the 
evenings,  we  sit  down  in  silence  before  the 
inviting  hearth,  and  look  into  its  face  inquir- 
ingly for  revelations.  We  enjoy  frolics  with 
the  wildest  fancies,  too,  as  they  trip  hither  and 
thither  across  the  restless  waves  of  flame,  un- 
til we  give  up  trying  to  keep  them  company. 
The  imagination  plunges  into  the  boiling  flood 
of  red  and  white  heats,  wallowing  in  its  surg- 
ing and  retreating  tides,  and  dragging  forth 
drowned  images,  dripping  from  the  bath  of  a 
brighter  beauty.  So  we  all  love  to  gather 

2 


18  HOMESPUN. 

around  the  hearth,  conscious  that  even  its 
dreamiest  silence  is  intensely  social. 

But  the  Age  we  live  in  is  an  everlasting 

busybody.  It  invades  every  nook  and  corner, 
let  it  be  ever  so  quiet  and  drowsy;  like  the 
tax-gatherer,  it  passes  by  no  man's  door.  And 
with  its  many  other  vaunted  improvements, 
this  same  Age  has  pushed  forward  an  army  of 
sappers  and  miners,  masons  and  stove-fitters 
by  name,  with  clinking  trowels  and  clattering 
pipes,  who  have  come  and  camped  down  in 
the  very  pleasantest  rooms  of  all  the  house- 
holds in  the  land.  What  with  their  rattling 
and  hammering,  and  thumping  and  pounding, 
they  have  done  their  best  to  beat  down  and 
trample  under  foot  all  the  tender  associations 
that  belong  to  the  open  hearth.  They  have 
drawn  their  curtains  of  sightless  brick-and- 
mortar  across  the  dear  old  fireplaces,  and 
closed  the  chimney  corner  against  spirit-vis- 
itors altogether.  They  have  condemned  all 
the  delightful  memories  to  a  dark  imprison- 
ment, where  their  blackened  skeletons  will  be 
found  some  day  for  the  digging,  overgrown 
with  the  nettleweeds  and  long  grasses  that 
ever  make  haste  to  beautify  these  homestead 
desolations.  They  have  mounted  a  grim  cy- 
lindrical invention,  with  the  fierce,  red  eye  of 


FIRE   ON  THE  HEARTH.  19 

Polyphemus,  and  bidden  the  shivering  house- 
hold gather  around  it  to  drive  the  numbness 
out  of  their  fingers  and  the  chill  from  their 
hearts :  and  this  instrument  goes  by  the  mod- 
ern name  of  the  STOVE. 

Henceforth,  Penates,  away  with  your- 
selves to  attic  or  cellar  as  fast  as  you  can! 
You  are  wanted  here  no  longer.  Grand- 
mother, in  her  high-crowned  cap,  will  need  to 
sit  no  more  in  the  corner  now,  but  must  post 
herself  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  rather.  The 
smooth  cedar  tray,  with  rag-balls  for  the  new 
home-made  carpet,  will  now  be  kicked  about 
under  everybody's  feet.  There  are  to  be  no 
more  household  gatherings  as  of  old  in  the 
evening,  for  the  vestal  fires  are  all  gone  out. 
A  stove,  you  know,  is  not  a  hearth  ;  heat  is 
not  fire  ;  warmth  is  not  blaze.  All  those  brill- 
iant crowds  which  came  and  went  for  us  in 
chariots  of  fire,  their  eyes  sparkling  and  burn- 
ing from  the  midst  of  the  living  coals,  have 
taken  their  leave  forever.  The  cities  of  silver 
and  gold  that  used  to  lie  under  the  forestick  — 
bristling  with  steeples  and  roofs,  substantial 
with  towers  and  walls,  with  castles  and  cathe- 
drals, and  washed  on  either  side  by  rivers  with 
such  tides  as  never  shone  in  the  suns  of  our 
heaven — are  faded,  and  darkened,  and  dead. 


20  HOMESPUN. 

No  Herculaneum  was  ever  more  oppressed 
with  the  silence  which  rests  on  its  long-buried 
streets.  The  cities  of  the  plain  are  not  more 
.entirely  extinct  and  forgotten. 

Near  a  blackened   stove   the   human 

heart  builds  no  altars.     It  sends  its  aspirations 
to  heaven   through   no   soot- begrimed   pipes. 
It  waits  upon  the  turn  of  no  tinman's  clumsy 
"  flues  "    and   "  dampers."      Unless   its    senti- 
ments be  warmed  in  the  blaze  of  a  genial  heat, 
they  will  refuse  to  soar  on  the  wings  of  white 
and  blue  smokes  skyward.    Down  the  chimney 
is   direct   and    open ;    but   through  a  double- 
kneed  stove-pipe  the  way  is  crooked  and  for- 
bidding indeed.     Looking  up  a  wide-throated 
aperture,  one  may  possibly  catch  a  sky-glimpse 
as  big  as  his  hand ;    but  through  the  narrow 
neck  of  a  stove-pipe  —  never. 

A  Homestead  without  a  pair  of  Old 

Folks  —  "  Time's  doting  chroniclers  "  —  seated 
contentedly   in    the    chimney    corner,    would 
hardly  be  a  homestead  at  all.     If  they  are  in 
the  picture  it  is  complete. 

There  you  may  find  them,  day  in  and  day 
out,  in  all  sorts  of  weather,  steadfast  to  their 
places  and  to  one  another.  When  the  eaves 
drip,  in  the  middle  of  the  winter  forenoons,  the 


FIRE   ON   THE  HEARTH.  21 

old  man  with  the  head  of  silver  abandons  his 
post  and  the  last  Saturday's  newspaper,  to 
make  the  accustomed  tour  of  the  kitchen  offi- 
ces, the  sheds,  or  the  barn,  lingering  by  the 
way  to  throw  down  a  handful  of  grain  for  the 
pinched  poultry.  With  what  minuteness  he  is 
cautioned  by  Grandmother  not  to  go  out  in- 
sufficiently clad  ;  and  with  what  a  single- 
hearted  joy  she  welcomes  him  when  he  comes 
back  io  her  again !  He  would  hardly  get  a 
warmer  reception  if  he  was  just  come  home 
from  a  genuine  polar  expedition.  And  as  soon 
as  he  has  nestled  down  snugly  in  his  cushioned 
chair  once  more,  and  dealt  out  on  the  glowing 
forestick  a  few  vigorous  raps  with  the  tongs, 
he  will  launch  forth  into  such  voluble  details 
of  the  keen  air  out  doors,  —  suggesting  Arctic 
reminiscences  which  no  listener  could  very 
well  call  in  question,  —  as  will  find  the  white- 
haired  old  couple  topic  of  earnest  talk  till  din- 
ner is  brought  on  the  table. 

The  children  invariably  come  home  from 
school,  in  the  wintry  afternoons,  to  find  the 
placid  pair  seated  in  that  same  accustomed 
spot :  —  the  strip  of  sunshine  lying  pale  and 
sleepily  across  the  floor,  the  gray  cat  curled 
before  the  fire  in  the  nest  of  her  endless 
dreams,  and  the  little  sprites  that  are  "  pegged 


22  HOMESPUN. 

in  the  knotty  entrails  "  of  the  oak  logs  singing 
the  drowsy  hours  away.  Wilkie  would  have 
made  the  picture  immortal.  Down  along  the 
snowy  roads  the  winds  are  wrestling  with 
travellers,  pulling  and  tearing  at  hats,  and 
cloaks,  and  meagre  robes ;  —  but  no  winds  are 
to  be  felt  in  this  room's  tranquil  haven  ;  here 
all  days  are  halcyon  days,  and  no  atmosphere 
is  breathed  but  that  of  peace  and  heaven.  In 
the  old  man's  cheeks  the  rich  mottle  is  as  fresh, 
to  appearance,  as  it  ever  was  ;  the  features  be- 
tray no  look  of  being  pinched  with  the  cold; 
no  snows  can  get  in  to  benumb  his  attenuated 
fingers. 

They  two  constitute  a  sort  of  family  tribu- 
nal ;  and  a  highly  useful  arrangement  it  is,  in 
a  crowded  domestic  congress.  They  are  al- 
ways to  be  found  on  the  judicial  bench,  ready 
to  give  audience.  Many  are  the  tough  little 
problems  that  are  brought  to  them  for  their 
wise  solution.  They  pass  upon  cases  in  which 
the  interests  of  the  turbulent  younglings  are 
involved,  with  a  promptness  which  challenges 
the  disputants'  wonder;  and  if  Grandma  only 
said  thus  and  so,  there  is  no  use  in  hunting  for 
higher  authority,  —  she  is  conceded  to  be  the 
"end  of  the  law."  Or  Grandpa  promises  to 
mend  the  broken  sled ;  and  never  was  sled  of 


FIRE  ON  THE  HEARTH.  23 

boy  repaired  with  greater  dexterousness  and 
ingenuity.  From  early  morning  until  night- 
fall he  rambles  about  the  house  on  short  excur- 
sions, filled  full  and  thoroughly  warmed  with 
the  dear  home  feeling. 

And  when  one  pair  of  dimmed  eyes  be- 
comes yet  dimmer,  and  at  last  fades  entirely 
from  the  hearth,  —  and  one  stooping  form  is 
carried  forth  from  its  cherished  corner  to  be 
seen  there  no  more  forever,  —  what  vacancy  in 
the  heart  of  the  household  then  !  Looking  up 
from  her  forenoon  occupation,  Grandmother 
throws  her  eyes,  from  sheer  force  of  habit,  into 
the  opposite  corner ;  but  the  chair  stands  empty 
over  there,  and  a  great  tear  trembles  on  her 
cheek  as  she  adjusts  her  needle  in  the  knitting- 
sheath  she  wears.  The  fire  is  not  so  hot  that 
it  can  warm  her  chilled  heart  any  longer.  She 
listens  to  the  wintry  winds  that  are  blowing 
without,  —  and  thinks  of  that  single  grave, 
freshly  rounded  under  the  pines. 

It  is  at  night  that  the  hearth  shows  in  its 

true  glory.  The  fire-spirits  seem  to  love  best  to 
assemble  then.  In  those  late  days  of  Autumn, 
when  the  evenings  are  grown  perceptibly 
longer,  and  the  cricket  sings  in  the  corner  as 
if  he  were  hoarse,  and  the  sodden  leaves  lie 
thickly  trampled  in  the  walks  and  yard,  —  the 


24  HOMESPUN. 

first  blaze  of  a  fire  on  the  hearth  is  very 
welcome,  for  it  is  a  summons  to  all  the  ac- 
customed worshippers  to  gather  again  at  the 
family  shrine;  and  it  distinctly  holds  out 
pleasant  promises  that  cluster,  like  ripe  ivy 
berries,  about  the  long  months  of  the  winter. 
There  is  just  enough  chill  in  the  air  to  drive 
one  to  the  fire ;  and  on  the  hearth  is  just 
enough  fire  to  make  the  chill  enjoyable. 
Through  the  round  of  the  whole  year,  I  know 
no  other  fires  like  this  first  hearth-blaze  in  the 
Autumn.  The  group  of  Winter  delights  shines 
out  then,  as  upon  a  canvas. 

The  chief  treasure  of  our  winters  is  buried 
in  the  depth  of  the  long  evenings.  Father  and 
Mother  are  early  in  their  places,  and  the  chil- 
dren range  themselves  conveniently  around. 
No  matter  what  the  peculiar  employments  of 
the  time,  the  associations  that  clothe  all  are  of 
a  really  sacred  character.  The  masks  which 
each  may  have  worn  through  the  day,  unlace 
then  and  fall  off.  Face  answers  to  face,  as 
heart  silently  speaks  to  heart.  The  round 
world  has  no  enticements  to  offer,  so  simple 
and  true  as  those  of  the  wintry  fire-light.  Men 
afterwards  throw  back  longing  glances  from 
the  advanced  paths  of  their  feverish  life-career 
to  an  innocent  picture  like  this,  and  in  their 


FIRE   ON   THE  HEARTH.  25 

hearts  confess  it  is  the  very  realization  of  which 
they  are  striving  to  be  possessed.  Yet  they 
drift  further  and  further  from  it  instead,  till 
nothing  remains  of  the  picture  but  the  picture, 
its  outlines  fading  into  faintness,  and  with 
little  life  in  its  body  save  what  a  jaded  mem- 
ory has  it  in  its  power  to  supply. 

The  smoky  stories  that  go  with  these  even- 
ing delights  at  the  hearth  are  not  to  be  set 
down  as  the  days  are  in  the  calendar  :  —  they 
are  gypsy  children  of  the  peaceful  hours  them- 
selves, and  troop  forth  only  at  such  times  as 
they  are  wanted.  The  ancient  Dutch  tiles  are 
not  half  so  crowded  with  their  Scripture  illus- 
trations as  are  our  commonest  old  fireplaces 
with  scenes  that  illustrate  these  homely  winter- 
evening  stories.  The  youngest  boy  of  all  is 
not  more  under  the  spell  than  his  eldest  brother. 
They  climb  the  stairs  to  bed,  at  last,  in  strange 
enough  company.  The  girls  feed  the  coals 
with  wisps  of  paper,  and  watch,  while  the 
sparkles  travel  up  and  down  the  burnt  heap, 
to  "  see  the  folks  go  home  from  meeting."  A 
genuine  ghost  story  instantly  makes  the  logs 
populous ;  the  shadowy  faces  of  spirits  peer 
from  mysterious  caverns  among  the  sticks ; 
their  impalpable  forms  flit  across  weltering  seas 
of  flame,  climb  nimbly  into  towers  and  stee- 


26  HOMESPUN. 

pies,  and  beckon  at  windows  through  which 
pour  the  floods  of  yellow  sunsets. 

All  this,  and  many,  many  times  more,  can  a 
story  of  some  sleepless  ghost  evoke  from  the 
logs  that  were  so  lately  chopped  on  the  old 
wood  lot. 

At  the  hearth,  the  heart  seems  to  bind 

up  all  its  sheaves  for  harvest.  There  all  its 
joys  —  domestic  and  foreign  —  are  gathered  in. 
There  the  sombre  woof  is  gaily  shot  with  bright 
figures  and  patterns.  The  self-communion  at 
this  altar  is  searching  and  thorough.  A  man 
sits  down  face  to  face  with  himself,  and  would 
love  to  think  no  more  of  the  world  or  its 
guile. 

If  there  might  be  a  hearth  in  every  heart! 
And  the  precious  memories  which  one  brings 
away  with  him,  too,  seasoned  well  with  time, 
rich  with  ripened  colors,  and  mellow  with 
flavors  that  cannot  be  described ! 

The  fireplace  has  been  the  district  school- 
house  for  the  discipline  of  the  present  genera- 
tion in  the  virtues  they  possess,  whether  few  or 
many.  What  is  tender  in  popular  sentiment  — 
what  is  simple  and  direct  in  popular  preaching 
and  speaking  —  what  is  strong  and  homely 
and  well-grounded  in  popular  phrase,  has  its 
healthy  and  enduring  root  here.  Tear  up  all 


FIRE    ON  THE  HEARTH. 


27 


the  broad  hearth-stones  in  the  land  to-day,  and 
these  very  memories  would  start  at  once,  like 
tender  grasses,  around  them,  to  beautify  the 
spot  whence  they  sprung  and  keep  them  green 
forever. 


EAINT  DATS. 

WHEN  I  go  off  into  the  country  to  stay 
awhile,  I  like,  of  all  things,  on  pulling 
the  bedclothes  about  me  and  settling  my  head 
in  the  pillows  for  the  night,  to  hear  the  rain 
drip  from  the  eaves  on  the  roof  of  the  porch. 
The  sound  makes  the  sense  of  comfort  and 
cosiness  full  and  complete.  If  I  were  sure  the 
world  was  to  be  drowned  out  before  morning, 
it  would  scarcely  ruffle  the  serenity  of  my  spirit 
one  whit.  I  lie  and  let  flow  through  my  mind 
unformed  fancies  of  tall,  feathery  brakes,  pearly 
with  rows  of  rain-drops,  emptying  their  leafy 
buckets  into  my  boot-tops  ;  of  drenched  boughs 
in  the  woods,  slapping  their  showers  in  my 
neck  and  face  ;  of  mill-dams  carried  off  by  ris- 
ing floods  ;  of  bridges  gone,  and  deluges  work- 
ing down  between  the  singing  shingles  into 
the  room  :  —  but  the  effort,  somehow,  is  after  a 
time  too  great,  and  I  sink  to  slumber  among 
the  murmurs  of  the  rain  as  tranquilly  as  a  child 
goes  off,  with  its  last  plaything  held  tight  in 
its  little  hand. 


RAINY  DAYS,  29 

They  have  no  real  rainy  days  in  the  city. 
What  are  so  styled  are  only  dark  days  —  dirty 
days  —  days  of  mud,  and  slosh,  and  soured 
tempers  —  days  of  soggy  boots,  saturated 
clothes,  and  spoiled  hats.  In  the  country,  Na- 
ture makes  nothing  of  showing  you  her  face ; 
and  it  is  not  lowery  and  scowling,  either,  —  it 
is  tearful,  more  or  less  "  blubbered,"  as  Spencer 
would  say,  yet  altogether  placid  and  calm  un- 
derneath. The  rain  is  no  more  than  a  chang- 
ing mood  there,  which  she  comes  out  of  all  the 
happier  for  having  submitted  to  its  brief  ob- 
scuration. 

It  is  not  an  easy  matter  to  say  if  any  two 
individuals,  harbored  by  chance  in  the  same 
shelter,  get  just  the  same  sort  of  experience  out 
of  a  rainy  day.  I  have  been  a  patient  listener 
to  many  a  personal  narrative  on  this  theme, 
but  every  one,  I  found,  was  the  property  of  its 
owner  alone.  The  heavens,  therefore,  do  not 
rain  down  the  same  influences  upon  us  all. 

Then,  too,  rain  affects  us  differently  in  dif- 
ferent places.  It  is  one  thing  if  you  are  shel- 
tered snugly  and  warm  at  home,  at  the  opening 
of  a  gray  November  storm,  such  as  hoods  the 
New  England  hills  with  its  weird-looking 
mists,  —  and  quite  another  if  you  happen  to 
be  weather-bound  in  some  far  back  little  coun- 


30  HOMESPUN. 

try  tavern,  with  a  dismally  long  day  ahead, 
and  only  a  checker-board,  a  foul  stove,  and  a 
handful  of  water-soaked  idlers  for  social  con- 
solation. One  could  make  himself  very  happy 
at  home,  with  dog  and  cat  and  books  and  fam- 
ily close  about  him  ;  but  in  these  by-places, 
the  sentiment  seems  to  get  rubbed  off  by  the 
dirty  clothes,  and  trampled  to  death  under  the 
muddy  boots. 

But  ah !  it  is  so  delicious  to  the  spirit  that 
is  at  all  sensitive,  to  hear  the  big  drops  patter- 
ing on  the  roof;  the  garret  is  the  place  to  get 
true  inspiration  from  the  rain.  What  hidden 
realms  of  pleasure  the  boys  and  girls  explore 
up  there,  rummaging  the  old  place  from  end 
to  end!  Side-saddles  and  antique  bonnets  are 
dragged  forth  from  their  twilight  domains,  to 
do  service  once  more  for  a  generation  un- 
dreamt of  in  the  day  of  their  original  glory. 
Faded  out  pamphlets,  and  books  with  half 
covers,  —  perhaps  a  fragment  of  old  Flavius 
Josephus,  or  the  remnant  of  an  odd  volume  of 
Colonial  History,  or,  more  likely,  a  pile  of 
preserved  almanacs,  inlaid  and  overlaid  with 
dust  and  diligently  eaten  of  rats,  —  fan  the  em- 
bers of  the  childish  thought  into  a  living  flame, 
and  the  afternoon  hours  glide  away  as  silently 
as  the  twilight  owl  sails  off  into  the  mystery 


RAINY  DAYS.  31 

of  a  deeper  darkness.  The  Saturday  after- 
noons in  old  garrets  are  well-nigh  sacred,  for 
the  memories  that  are  stored  within  them  ;  and 
the  mere  mention  of  them  along  with  the  rain 
is  enough  to  bring  back  a  lost  man  entirely  to 
himself  again. 

Rainy  days  at  home  are  apt,  likewise,  to  put 
in  the  head  a  vagabondish  wish  for  a  thought- 
ful ramble  over  the  domestic  premises.  It  is  a 
fatuity  with  me  then  to  go  poking  into  every 
odd  and  curious  corner  there  is ;  in  my  mind, 
an  indefinable  association  links  out-of-the-way 
house-nooks  and  rainy  days  together.  To 
stand  idly  at  the  back  door  and  listen  to  the 
water  rilling  into  the  hogshead  at  the  corner, 
is  a  good  deal  better  than  Casta  Diva  ;  and 
the  melodies  stick  faster  in  the  heart.  Around 
the  back  buildings  and  under  the  sheds  huddle 
the  poultry,  with  drooping  tails  and  drowned 
feet,  watching  the  sprinkle  of  the  rain  and  lis- 
tening to  its  sounds,  till  they  fall  asleep  on 
foot,  at  last,  from  the  sheer  narcotism  of  its 
monotony.  The  house  dog  walks  from  the 
barn  to  the  shed,  and  from  the  shed  to  the 
kitchen,  occasionally  throwing  up  a  weather- 
wise  eye  at  the  clouds,  as  if  he  were  wonder- 
ing when  it  would  clear  off  again.  The  cows 
are  gone  under  the  barn  for  a  while,  and  there 
they  quietly  ruminate  and  grow  steamy.  The 


32  HOMESPUN. 

horse  looks  cautiously  out  of  his  stall  window, 
becomes  disheartened  with  the  prospect,  and 
draws  his  long  face  in  again. 

As  soon  as  the  Spring  buds  are  ready 

to  burst  in  millions  of  little  green  parachutes, 
and  the  brooks  are  rising  and  rinsing  out  the 
gullies,  and  the  trout  leap  eagerly  for  the  stray 
tributes  of  fortune  that  come  swimming  down, 
—  none  of  the  common  pleasures  known  are 
matched  by  that  of  being  out  in  the  rain.  The 
drizzle  is  truly  delightful.  Aquarius  himself 
ought  therj  to  confess  himself  satisfied.  The 
fine  rain  seems  to  work  its  way  into  the  very 
pores,  and  refreshes  as  well  as  equalizes  the 
animal  spirits. 

With  this  weather  the  noise  of  running 
brooks  is  in  perfect  tune.  In  the  low,  alluvial 
tracts  sprout  sheaves  of  rank  marsh  plants  of 
gigantic  promise,  among  such  weeds  as  people 
these  swampy  regions.  The  drops  of  rain 
fringe  the  black  birch  and  alder  boughs  like 
lines  of  bells,  dripping  from  them  in  rows  with 
the  sb'ghtest  shaking.  The  torpid  old  fisher- 
man, like  the  sun-loving  turtle,  may  be  seen 
glued  to  the  rock  by  the  pond-side,  waiting 
patiently  for  bites  and  a  precarious  dinner ; 
yet  if  you  go  and  sit  down  beside  him  in  his 
own  spirit,  he  will  let  you  further  into  the  still 


RAINY  DAYS.  33 

secrets  of  Nature  —  concerning  fish,  new 
moons,  mink  traps,  high  waters,  woodcraft, 
and  river  lore  —  than  you  could  extract  from 
all  the  poets  in  a  three  months'  reading ;  and 
it  will  be  wholly  fresh  and  reliable,  with  the 
earthy  smell  to  it,  too. 

A  gray  and  sullen  November  rain,  coming 
down  over  the  hills  as  if  it  meant  to  seize  and 
wrap  you  in  its  chilly  folds,  has  its  really 
charming  side,  too.  It  is  good  to  be  out  on 
the  hill-side  pastures  then.  The  brown  and 
matted  grasses,  the  faded  ferns,  the  stripped 
trees,  the  straggling  sheep  huddled  under  the 
lee  of  the  stone  wall,  and  the  woodland  dimly 
receding  like  a  ship  at  sea  in  the  dense  fog, 
start  around  the  thought  a  crowd  of  familiar 
associations.  Home  comforts  take  shape  in- 
stantly in  the  mind,  and  the  winter  landscape 
before  the  imaginary  view  grows  green  in  the 
prospect  of  its  recurring  pleasures.  There  is 
a  mysterious  power  in  these  autumn  rains  to 
shut  one  up  within  himself,  which  begets  the 
cosy  feeling  that  attends  upon  their  approach ; 
and  if  we  come  nearer  still  and  look  close 
enough,  we  can  detect,  if  we  cannot  trace,  the 
secret  law  that  holds  our  souls  to  the  heart  of 
Nature. 

The  falling  rains  of  this  season  find  stout 

3 


34  HOMESPUN. 

piles  of  wood  about  the  sheds,  ready  for  the 
ringing  axe  of  December,  when  the  mercury  is 
low  and  the  blood  needs  a  start  in  the  veins. 
They  drive  vainly  against  the  many-paned 
homestead  windows,  and  now  and  then  force 
themselves  in  a  little,  before  they  are  over. 
They  drip,  and  keep  dripping,  from  the  boughs 
of  the  big  elm  before  the  house,  and  give  a 
sorry  look  to  the  apple  trees  behind  it. 

And  then  the  barns,  too,  swarm  with  associ- 
ations that  are  filled  with  a  wonderful  mag- 
netism. The  broad  bay  is  heaped  full,  and  the 
staunch  scaffolds  overhang  with  their  sweet- 
scented  burthen.  The  poultry  go  slying  about 
the  dry  floors,  and  in  and  out  the  secret  nooks 
made  by  the  hay,. pecking  at  stray  seeds  and 
very  happy  in  their  security  from  the  storm 
without.  The  cows  are  contented  to  stay  late 
in  their  stalls  in  the  morning,  nor  will  they  go 
far  from  the  door  even  when  let  out.  Occa- 
sionally, an  old  cat,  with  a  half-wild  expres- 
sion, crosses  the  mow  up  under  the  ridge-pole, 
making  rustling  footfalls  that  break  the  silence 
ominously. 

On  rainy  days,  the  old  home-kitchens,  so 
spacious  and  clean,  are  alive  with  domestic 
enterprises  of  every  device  and  description ; 
.and  if  it  so  chances  that  it  is  the  baking-day, 


£.4 /AT  DAYS.  35 

the  scene  can  hardly  be  matched  anywhere 
for  its  industry.  Bowls  and  trays  and  long 
wooden  spoons  —  iron  kettles  stuffed  with  rye- 
and-indian  dough  —  pies  by  the  dozen,  and 
joints  all  ready  and  waiting  for  the  spit ;  fire 
on  the  hearth,  and  fire  wandering  to  and  fro 
over  the  concave  of  the  great  brick  oven  ;  min- 
gled scents  of  all  good  things  baking  and  sim- 
mering ;  every  one  busy  and  intensely  inter- 
ested ;  and  the  whole  presenting  a  picture  of  a 
domestic  laboratory,  in  which  choicest  gratifi- 
cations are  secured  for  every  variety  of  appe- 
tite. None  save  the  well-ordered  and  thorough 
country  household  can  present  an  exhibit  of 
this  sort;  and  then  it  becomes  one  of  the  most 
substantial  of  home  attractions. 

It  is  an  indescribable  pleasure,  likewise,  to 
be  out  riding  in  the  rain,  if  the  long  coun- 
try roads  are  any  way  passable ;  shut  in  from 
the  reach  of  storm  and  wind,  snug  and  dry  as 
a  mouse  in  a  Cheshire  cheese,  your  horse  sure- 
footed and  his  face  set  homewards,  —  you  feel 
a  glow  of  satisfaction  even  in  the  spongiest  of 
days,  and  while  driving  between  dark  stone 
walls  and  drowned  reaches  of  woodland.  It 
gives  me  a  secret  pleasure  then  to  roll  past 
lordly  farm-houses,  catching  glimpses  of  smok- 
ing cattle  about  the  barn  doors,  or  signs  of  in- 


36  HOMESPUN. 

quisitive  human  life  at  the  front  windows ;  or 
sounds  of  responsive  threshing-flails  from  the 
barns  on  far-off  hill-sides,  of  barking  watch- 
dogs, and  shrill  chanticleer  in  the  pauses.  All 
the  more  welcome  and  cheery  is  it  then,  be- 
cause Home  is  ahead,  with  its  bright  fires,  and 
loving  faces,  and  dry  comforts  uncounted. 

•  There  is  no  reason  why  a  storm  of  rain 

should  be  a  spell  of  gloom,  to  be  grumbled 
through  as  we  get  through  the  annual  Fast 
Day  of  the  Governor.  Why  do  we  choose  to 
be  no  better  than  barometers,  —  such  sensitive 
children  of  the  weather  ?  Why  should  we 
consent  to  let  the  clouds  make  or  mar  our  hap- 
piness ?  Does  not  the  sun  shine  at  the  centre 
of  our  being  forever?  It  ought  rather  to  be 
that  rainy  days,  by  the  mysterious  aid  of  their 
associations,  bring  us  into  closer  and  better  ac- 
quaintance with  ourselves,  external  attractions 
having  for  the  time  parted  with  the  most  of 
their  power;  and,  in  this  better  sense,  are  they 
to  be  offered  a  hail  and  a  welcome,  and  even 
hoarded  with  those  golden  strips  and  margins 
of  our  existence,  when  we  journey  more  para- 
sangs  than  on  any  other.  At  home,  they  serve 
to  wash  the  heart  clean  of  its  worldliness,  even 
as  they  wash  the  windows  with  their  welcome 
flood. 


GARDEN  WORK. 

D  Almighty  first  planted  a  Garden," 
says  Bacon,  "  and,  indeed,  it  is  the 
purest  of  human  pleasures ;  it  is  the  greatest 
refreshment  to  the  spirits  of  man." 

"  There  is  no  ancient  gentlemen,"  says  the 
grave-digger  in  Hamlet,  "  but  gardeners,  ditch- 
ers, and  grave-makers ;  they  hold  up  Adam's 
profession." 

Said  the  gentle  old  Archbishop  Sancroft  to 
his  friend  Hough,  who  was  visiting  him  in 
Suffolk  :  "  Almost  all  you  see  is  the  work  of 
my  own  hands,  though  I  am  bordering  on 
eighty  years  of  age.  My  old  woman  does  the 
weeding,  and  John  mows  the  turf  and  digs  for 
me  ;  but  all  the  nicer  work  —  the  sowing,  graft- 
ing, budding,  transplanting,  and  the  like  —  I 
trust  to  no  other  hand  but  my  own,  so  long,  at 
least,  as  my  health  will  allow  me  to  enjoy  so 
pleasing  an  occupation." 

The  Poets  are  full  of  the  delights  of 

gardening ;  Cowley  and  Pope,  at  least,  came 


38  HOMESPUN. 

to  realize  their  dreams  in  this  respect.  One 
can  run  through  very  few  pages  of  English 
verse,  and  not  have  to  leap  hedges  of  allusions 
to  gardens,  or  without  bringing  away  a  mem- 
ory stuck  full  with  their  fragrant  blossoms. 
An  appreciative  writer  observes  that  "  Bacon 
and  Milton  were  the  prophet  and  the  herald, 
Pope  and  Addison  the  reformer  and  the  legisla- 
tor, of  horticulture."  Spenser's  stanzas  abound 
with  real  garden  pictures,  terrace  raised  above 
terrace,  and  lawn  stretching  beyond  lawn. 
The  garden  scene  in  "  Romeo  and  Juliet "  is 
the  favorite  one  with  all  readers,  because  in 
the  fragrant  atmosphere  of  the  garden,  in  the 
tempered  moonlight,  and  to  the  sound  of  trick- 
ling waters,  love  is  made  in  the  true  spirit,  of 
romance.  Tennyson  has  shown  us  how  it  is 
attempted  in  the  more  exquisite  passages  of 
his  everywhere-quoted  "  Maud."  The  poet 
Shenstone  wrote  from  his  favorite  Leasowes : 
"  I  feed  'my  wild  ducks,  I  water  my  carnations ; 
happy  enough  if  I  could  extinguish  my  am- 
bition quite."  Father  Adam  was  placed  in  a 
garden  to  "  dress  and  keep  it."  Every  reader 
of  English  recalls  at  once  Milton's  fine  descrip- 
tion of  our  first  parents  in  Eden,  rising  with 
the  dawn,  to  dress  the  alleys  green,  — 

"  Their  walk  at  noon,  with  branches  overgrown." 


GARDEN  WORK.  39 

The  gray  old  monks,  in  fact,  who  had  an 
eye  open  to  the  good  things  of  life  in  their 
day,  were  the  first  genuine  cultivators  of  flow- 
ers and  fruits,  and  around  their  solitary  keeps 
of  learning  slept  securely  many  a  productive 
garden  and  blossoming  orchard.  They  had 
the  true  relish  for  what  those  things  brought 
them,  and  tended  a  tree  or  a  flower  with  the 
same  zeal  with  which  they  wore  the  pavement 
smooth  with  their  frequent  devotions.  They 
taught  us  horticulture,  and  we  are  thus  be- 
come their  debtors  for  more  than  the  mere 
learning  they  were  instrumental  in  handing 
down. 

The  sincerest  pleasures  of  the  home-life 

are  woven  closely  in  with  those  of  the  garden. 
I  have  almost  made  one  of  my  own  heart,  from 
the  habit  of  living  over  again  the  delight  I 
used  to  take  in  digging,  planting,  weeding,  and 
watering  the  little  half-acre  Elysium,  where 
grew  so  luxuriantly  my  bulbous  cabbages  and 
bright-eyed  beans.  I  am  conscious  that  Goethe 
did  not  miss  of  the  general  truth  in  his  obser- 
vation that  he  took  the  solidest  delight  in  the 
simplest  pleasures  ;  and,  for  an  enduring  pleas- 
ure, clean  and  sweet  both  in  itself  and  its  mem- 
ories, we  can  truly  think  of  nothing  in  Nature 
before  a  little  garden.  It  should  not  be  so 


40  HOMESPUN. 

large  as  to  become  a  task-master,  and  thus 
worry  out  the  placid  zeal;  but  only  spacious 
enough  to  excite  the  physical  energy  and  give 
a  healthy  start  to  the  thought. 

I  am  not  making  any  allusion  to  city  gardens 
now,  nor  to  their  more  luxuriantly  gay  cousins 
of  the  suburbs,  where  the  owner  is  far  from 
being  the  author,  but  employs  his  gardener  as 
many  a  man  does  his  upholsterer ;  those  make 
beautiful  "  estates,"  and  are  objects  of  attrac- 
tion alike  to  shrewd  brokers  and  fashionable 
lovers  of  Nature ;  but  they  have  few  of  the 
savory  associations  of  simplicity,  and  peace, 
and  home.  Fine  enough  exotics  may  grow 
and  show  there,  whose  health  and  beauty  sal- 
aried gardeners  look  carefully  after ;  but  you 
will  search  in  vain  for  simple  morning-glories, 
climbing  like  eager  children  to  the  window-sill 
to  peep  in,  or  for  snowy  caps  out  among  the 
bean-poles  in  the  delicious  summer  weather. 

Work,  before  breakfast,  in  the  retired  gar- 
den-spot is  a  sort  of  inspiration  for  the  rest  of 
the  day.  In  that  still  hour,  you  mark  how 
your  lettuce  and  cabbages  have  shot  up  during 
the  night,  and  at  once  renew  your  faith  in 
Nature.  I  fear  my  closest  friend  would  have 
failed  to  recognize  me  then,  as  I  used  to  look 
in  that  patched  and  shredded  apparel,  the  limp 


GARDEN    WORK.  41 

hat-rim  falling  down  about  my  face  and  eyes, 
and  on  my  knees,  too,  —  before  many  others 
were,  —  for  striped  bugs  and  green  cabbage- 
worms. 

Or,  next  to  the  early  morning  work,  with 
the  dewy  earth  offering  its  grateful  exhalations 
to  the  nostrils,  the  twilight  stroll  through  the 
limited  grounds  is  full  of  peaceful  delight,  and 
tends  to  provoke  contemplation.  If  you  were 
in  the  morning  the  laborer,  you  can  realize  that 
you  are  the  lord  at  evening;  going  about  and 
pulling  up  scattered  weeds,  perhaps  changing 
around  a  few  plants,  thinning  the  sprouted 
rows  of  beets  or  onions,  grubbing  up  some 
pestiferous  root,  or  planning  somewhat  for  the 
next  morning's  industry. 

In  all  the  old-fashion  gardens  one  finds  a 
double  row  of  currant  bushes,  almost  as  inev- 
itable as  the  lilac  or  the  white  rose-bush,  at  the 
garden  gate.  A  charming  alley  is  thus  opened 
up  for  nearly  the  length  of  the  plat.  They 
maintain  their  lines  as  faithfully  as  appointed 
metes  and  bounds  ;  and,  spread  over  the  green 
ruffles  of  their  leaves,  may  be  seen,  all  through 
the  season,  a  white  crop  of  old  ladies'  caps, 
that  tells  of  the  grandmother  whose  hand 
planted  the  purple  morning-glories  under  the 
windows,  and  whose  head  now  and  then  shows 


42  HOMESPUN. 

itself  between  the  verdurous  walls  of  the  bean- 
vines.  A  man  would  as  soon  think  of  tearing 
a  true  sentiment  out  of  his  heart,  if  such  a 
thing  could  be  done,  as  of  pulling  up  the  cur- 
rant bushes  that  are  so  well  rooted  in  the 
garden. 

How  the  red  beet-tops  glisten  in  their  long 
rows,  as  if  some  pains-taking  hand  had  var- 
nished them,  one  by  one  !  How  crowded  stand 
those  carrots,  boring  each  its  long  yellow  fin- 
gers into  the  mellowed  subsoil !  With  what  a 
Dutch-like  and  dogmatic  air  the  swelling  cab- 
bages erect  their  pulpy  heads  in  the  perform- 
ance of  the  useful  work  they  are  set  to  do ! 

At  the  further  end  of  the  plat  stands  the 
summer-house,  —  a  sort  of  Pomona's  shrine,  in 
its  way,  as  well  as  a  moonlight  resort  for  lov- 
ers ;  a  contorted  grape-vine  weaving  a  lattice 
of  leaves  below  and  a  canopy  of  green  over- 
head, whose  purple  tributes  you  may  sit  and 
pluck  in  the  dreamy  afternoons  of  September, 
while  the  yellow  finches  are  clustering  on  the 
bushes  and  the  poultry  are  wallowing  in  the 
soft  garden  mould. 

Daybreak,  in  summer,  is  a  fresh  experi- 
ence every  morning,  in  the  garden.  A  good 
deal  has  been  said,  good  and  bad,  about  the 
glories  of  that  hour  on  the  hill-top  and  at  the 


GARDEN  WORK.  43 

riverside  ;  but  in  the  seclusion  of  the  leafy  lit- 
tle patch  beside  the  homestead  it  is,  apparently, 
not  so  well  known.  If  one  only  has  a  garden 
in  which  to  offer  salutation  to  the  day-god,  he 
has  at  least  one  more  inducement  to  get  out 
of  bed  in  the  dewy  hours  of  the  morning.  To 
be  right  in  the  midst  of  your  own  growing 
vegetables ;  to  behold  the  favorite  sunflowers 
all  turned  to  the  east;  to  watch  the  bean- 
sprouts,  coming  up  with  their  twin  leaves  out 
of  the  cleft  heart  of  the  seed ;  to  shave  down 
ranks  of  red-stemmed  weeds  with  a  single 
sweep  of  the  bright  hoe ;  to  brush  your  peas, 
pole  your  beans,  set  frames  to  support  your 
cucumbers  and  tomatoes,  trim  your  young 
hedges,  hunt  the  bugs  among  the  squash  vines, 
and  plan  new  paths  through  beds  of  vegeta- 
bles and  rows  of  fruit-trees :  —  this  it  is  to 
seize  a  fresh  pleasure  in  the  very  bloom  of  its 
freshness,  and  load  the  heart  with  a  harvest  of 
memories  that  grow  all  the  more  fragrant  with 
age. 

Somehow,  the  poets  have  linked  all  the 
pleasant  names  with  the  pleasant  occupations. 
Therein  they  have  shown  themselves  to  be 
poets.  The  very  word  Garden  is  laden,  like 
a  wain,  with  bundles  of  blossoming  associa- 
tions. When  men  speak  of  subduing  the  rug- 


44  HOMESPUN. 

ged  wildness  of  Nature,  the  phrase  goes  that 
they  will  make  it  "  beautiful  as  a  garden,"  In 
gardens  live  buds  and  blossoms,  along  with 
the  bees  and  the  sunshine  ;  and  they  die  there, 
too.  They  lie  close  to  Home.  We  step  from 
the  kitchen  door  through  the  garden  gate. 
Peaches  ripen  on  their  walls;  and  blooming 
plums  drop  plump  on  their  mellow  soil.  Our 
feet  loiter  in  their  delightful  walks,  and  the 
atmosphere  breathes  only  contentment  and 
peace. 

In  gardening,  and  its  cognate  associations, 
we  get  away  from  the  hot  fuming  of  the  world 
and  go  back  to  the  cool  and  shaded  bowers  of 
simplicity  and  truth.  We  seem  to  stand  with 
uncovered  heads  in  the  porch  of  Nature's  great 
temple.  We  smell  savors  as  fresh  as  the  morn- 
ing dews  and  as  sweet  as  the  breath  of  the 
rustling  corn.  There  is  such  a  retired,  such  a 
cool,  such  a  far-off  look  from  the  outer  world 
to  the  heart  of  the  garden,  that  one  deplores 
the  necessity  that  takes  him  away  from  so 
peaceful  a  pursuit,  and  wonders  if  there  may 
not  come  a  time  when  he  shall  stay  at  home 
altogether  in  his  rustic  corner,  and  dress  and 
keep  his  little  garden-spot  to  the  end  of  his 
days. 

When  the  pale  autumn  suns  fall  aslant 


GARDEN   WORK.  45 

through  the  dried  stalks,  and  little  flocks  of 
birds  flutter  here  and  there  over  the  grounds  in 
quest  of  seeds  that  have  burst  their  pods,  and 
tomatoes  lie  red  and  glossy  among  the  wilted 
and  fallen  vines,  and  bean-pods  hang  from  the 
poles  without  green  leaves  to  shelter  them  any 
longer,  and  slender-waisted  wasps  find  their 
way  to  the  decayed  fruits  that  lie,  here  and 
there,  over  the  ground,  —  the  thoughts  are  al- 
lured by  every  object  to  the  tenderest  mood  of 
contemplation ;  the  very  atmosphere  is  full  of 
the  realization  of  pleasant  dreams.  These  par- 
ticular days  in  the  garden  have  charms  which 
are  not  matched  even  by  the  glimpses  of  glory 
furnished  in  the  spring. 

He  who  loves  the  home-spot  then  finds  em- 
ployments after  his  heart's  desire.  To  gather 
and  garner  —  to  pull  the  rich  roots  out  of  the 
ground  where  they  have  waxed  fat  through  a 
whole  season's  dirty  idleness  —  to  get  in  the 
beans,  the  peppers,  the  mangoes,  and  such 
other  vegetables  as  ripen  in  seed-vessels  —  to 
go  from  garden  to  barn,  from  bam  to  kitchen, 
from  kitchen  to  cellar,  and  so  back  to  the  gar- 
den again,  keeps  the  feelings  of  the  domesti- 
cated man  in  a  state  of  contented  pleasure  all 
the  while,  and  renews  the  ties  continually  that 
hold  him  to  the  home  he  loves. 


46  HOMESPUN. 

* 

The  poultry  run  in  and  out  before  him,  and 
the  season's  chickens  delight  to  wallow  in  the 
loosened  dirt  under  the  lee  of  the  fence,  stretch- 
ing their  yellow  legs  in  the  genial  sun.  Grand- 
mother's bed  of  marigolds  awaits  the  clipping 
of  her  shears,  and  looks  like  a  shoal  of  bright 
fish,  dyed  in  the  yellow  stream  of  some  Pacto- 
lus.  As  for  the  rows  of  sturdy-looking  winter 
cabbages,  they  may  stand  out  awhile  through 
the  fall  frosts,  and  even  get  powdered  with 
the  first  light  snows  of  November  ;  —  and  the 
growing  turkey-poults  may  peck  at  the  loose 
outside  leaves  on  their  way  to  roost  in  the 
apple-trees. 

One  cannot  think  of  the  Spring  house-clean- 
ing, without  a  revived  reminiscence  of  the 
early  garden-work,  too.  The  boys  are  raking 
the  rubbish  from  the  grass  and  the  beds,  and 
setting  fire  to  it  in  the  piles  they  have  heaped 
up  around ;  into  which  the  old  shoes  of  the 
past  year  are  thrown  as  burnt-offerings.  The 
girls  are  at  the  posies,  scratching  away  like  so 
many  hens  in  the  high  tide  of  mischief.  The 
dog  has  his  nose  in  every  nook,  new  or  old, 
that  is  to  be  found.  The  windows  are  all 
opened,  to  let  in  the  genial  sun.  Bees  drive 
across  the  yards,  impatiently  foraging  for  the 
first  blossoms.  The  robins  make  the  air  vocal 


GARDEN  WORK.  47 

with  their  welcome  calls,  and  are  scouting 
about  the  plantations  for  nice  places  to  build 
their  nests.  The  sprouted  sprays  of  the  old 
elm  on  the  lawn  are  pencilled  on  the  ground 
in  the  sunshine,  with  the  utmost  minuteness. 
All  about  the  premises  there  are  the  joyous 
sights  and  sounds  of  Spring,  bringing  glad  ti- 
dings of  the  new  life  that  has  suddenly  broken 
over  the  world. 

And  this  is  the  life  of  Home.  Has  the 

whole  world  any  thing  to  offer  that  is  debased 
with  so  little  alloy  ? 

But  finest  of  all,  and  crown  of  all  the  home 
glories,  are  the  roses  ;  those  beautiful  children 
of  the  dews  and  sun  ;  clambering  in  such  wild 
riotousness  about  the  porch,  and  thrusting 
their  boquets  of  red-and-white  in  at  the  win- 
dows ;  cloudy  masses  of  colors  just  fetched 
from  Paradise,  mingled  as  if  in  chance  drifts, 
and  piled  against  the  house  like  snows  against 
the  walls  in  winter!  The  little  parlor  — 
shaded  and  low  —  is  filled  with  the  breath  of 
their  very  hearts.  Through  the  whole  of  Jun£, 
the  dear  old  place  is  a  sort  of  Dreamland.  In 
the  most  brilliant  colorings  of  oriental  tales  — 
in  the  dreamiest  pictures  of  islands  in  the 
southern  seas,  nothing  so  satisfies  the  imagina- 
tion and  the  heart  as  the  luxuriant  rose-vines, 


48  HOMESPUN, 

bossed  from  root  to  crown  with  glories  of  buds 
and  blossoms ;  lavishing  their  sweet  lives  on 
the  happiness  of  those  who  dwell  contentedly 
at  home  ;  and  conjuring  up  for  soul  and  sense, 
through  the  magic  of  color  and  perfume,  ideal 
scenes  that  line  the  roadways  of  life  with 
banks  of  ravishing  fragrance  and  bowers  of 
beauty  without  end. 

The  Rose  is  the  Angel  of  the  Garden  ; 

and  one  can  therefore  readily  comprehend 
what  the  poet  Gray  meant  when  he  exclaimed 
—  "  Happy  they  who  can  create  a  Rose !  "  Sir 
Henry  Wotton  wrote  of  it,  in  his  verses  "  On 
his  Mistress,  the  Queen  of  Bohemia,"  — 

"  You  Violets  that  first  appear, 

By  your  pure  purple  mantles  known, 
Like  the  proud  virgins  of  the  year, 
As  if  the  Spring  were  all  your  own,  — 
"What  are  you  when  the  ROSE  is  blown?  " 


SUNDAY  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 

OF  the  almost  silent  delights  of  this  one  day 
out  of  the  seven,  those  who  persistently 
dwell  in  the  cities  know  little  or  nothing.  The 
few  whom  the  heat  or  the  fashion  drives  forth 
into  still  country  neighborhoods  for  two  or  three 
weeks  each  summer,  carry  back  with  them  but 
a  half-notion  of  the  Country  Sunday  as  it  is,  — 
albeit  they  are  as  fond  of  talking  about  it  as  if 
they  were  as  steady  to  meeting  as  the  deacons 
themselves.  It  is  a  clear  mistake  to  suppose 
that  one  little  foray  into  the  country,  every 
summer,  is  going  to  supply  a  requisite  idea  of 
ordinary  country  matters :  —  a  man  may  as 
well  make  his  choice  of  a  house  by  sample. 

That  sort  of  country  life  which  neighbors 
upcxn  the  cities,  whose  sober  warp  is  shot  daily 
with  the  gay  woof  of  town  travel,  is  not  the 
life  I  am  speaking  of  now ;  in  the  quiet  rural 
retirement  where  I  write,  I  hear  no  roar  of  car 
wheels  or  shrill  whoop  of  the  steam-whistle 
even  in  the  distance.  I  fail  to  see  glittering 


50  HOMESPUN. 

turn-outs  on  their  way  to  church,  to  upset  the 
sober  heads  of  such  as  gather  on  the  village 
Green.  The  charm  of  it  is,  the  country  at  no 
time  loses  its  real  country  character.  The 
Sunday  morning  air  is  as  tranquil,  and  in  sum- 
mer as  redolent,  as  the  poets  all  say  it  was  in 
Eden.  You  can  hear  mellow  bells  calling  one 
to  another  from  hill-top  to  hill-top,  their  echoes 
tripping  across  the  intervening  meadows  as 
lightly  as  tricksy  Ariel.  Men,  women  and 
children  are  starched  up  in  their  very  cleanest 
and  best.  An  open  wagon,  stiffly  set  on  the 
old-fashion  "  thorough-braces,"  comes  as  near 
to  a  coupe,  chariotee,  or  barouche  as  you 
can  ordinarily  discover.  Everybody  is  plain, 
homely,  and  remarkably  sober.  Everybody 
travels  the  lengthening  roads  to  meeting  be- 
cause, primarily,  it  is  a  duty,  and  not  merely  a 
sentiment,  or  the  fashion.  Underneath  a  fixed 
rigidity  their  hard,  dry  humor  is  effectually  cov- 
ered up  ;  and  only  at  the  noon  intermission  of 
an  hour,  —  behind  the  meeting-house,  perhaps, 
or  just  around  the  next  corner,  or  tucked  away 
in  the  half-shadows  of  the  horse-sheds,  —  do 
the  men  dare  to  relax  their  muscles  from  the 
set  Sunday  grimness,  and  give  way  to  an  out- 
break of  humor  at  best  almost  as  sickly  as  the 
sun  seen  through  a  bit  of  smoked  glass. 


SUNDAY  IN  THE   COUNTRY.  51 

There  are,  to  be  sure,  some  interior  villages 
all  along  the  lines  of  the  railroads,  that  hold 
up  their  heads  on  a  Sunday  with  a  good  deal 
of  pert  pretension  ;  but  these  cannot  deny,  if 
they  would,  that  they  are  still  fastened  by  the 
umbilical  cord  to  the  city  systems  and  customs. 
Such  are  not  —  mind  you  —  your  genuine 
country  villages,  that  have  from  the  start  set 
up  housekeeping  for  themselves,  "do"  their 
own  washing  and  ironing,  and  cut  and  make 
their  own  clothes.  If  one  desires  to  see  and 
enjoy  the  real  country  Sunday,  he  must  go  off 
beyond  city  reach  altogether. 

In  New  England,  these  choice  places  that  I 
am  talking  of  may  still  be  found  in  plenty,  cut 
up  as  the  surface  of  the  country  is  with  rail- 
roads ;  but  you  cannot  expect  to  see  them  by 
merely  looking  out  of  a  flying  car  window. 
They  are  to  be  sought,  and  not  stumbled  upon. 
If  you  once  start  out  on  foot,  almost  any 
crooked  by-road  will  beguile  you  towards 
them  with  certainty. 

In  the  summer  time,  when  the  sun  gets  up 
and  looks  in  at  the  east  windows,  not  far  from 
half-past  four  o'clock  of  a  Sunday  morning, 
the  good  farmer-folk  bestir  themselves  right 
early.  In  place  of  setting  the  pitcher  in  the 
dingy  area  for  the  milk-and-water  man,  they 


52  HOMESPUN. 

turn  out  to  fill  their  own  frothy  pails  as  soon, 
certainly,  as  sunrise,  and  send  off  the  dewy- 
coated  cows  to  pasture  again.  The  children 
are  all  brought  up  to  the  kitchen  sink,  and 
scrubbed  and  rubbed  till  they  take  on  a  shine 
like  new  furniture.  Pretty  soon  old  aunts  slip 
out  into  the  garden  and  snap  off  a  spike  or  two 
of  lilac  blossoms  from  the  bush  close  by  the 
gate,  which  they  stick  into  broken-nosed  pitch- 
ers about  the  mantels  and  hearth.  The  farmers 
themselves,  in  snowy  shirt-sleeves,  are  every- 
where about  the  barns,  greasing  up  the  wagon 
wheels,  tinkering  at* the  harnesses,  and  indulg- 
ing in  a  general  fuss  of  preparation  for  the 
hour  of  meeting. 

Not  a  home  in  the  whole  breadth  of  quiet 
landscape  but  is  at  that  moment  all  ready  to 
send  forth  its  own  swarm.  And  the  white 
wooden  meeting-house  is  big  enough  to  collect 
and  hold  them  all  safely  together. 

Breakfast  being  done,  and  the  children  hav- 
ing taken  off  their  long  tires,  a  tedious  spell  — 
to  them  —  intervenes  till  church  time.  Where 
the  family  is  a  pious  and  well-ordered  one,  the 
restless  young  folks  are  seated  around  the  room 
in  a  silent  circle,  generally  with  Testaments  in 
their  hands ;  and  there  they  keep  them  fast,  sit- 
ting stiffly,  primly,  and  uncomfortably,  until  the 


SUNDAY  IN  THE   COUNTRY.  53 

hour  comes  laggingly  around.  No  matter  if  a 
golden-ringed  bumblebee  does  fly  in  at  the  open 
window ;  or  a  lady  butterfly  shakes  the  yellow 
dust  from  the  velvet  of  her  gorgeous  cloak, 
just  over  the  window-sill ;  or  a  bird  comes  and 
sings  on  a  low  bough  hard  by,  to  let  the  boys 
feel  how  unspeakably  joyous  outdoor  liberty 
must  be,  of  a  Sunday  morning  :  —  there  must 
they  sit  all  in  a  row,  with  faces  as  rigid  as  the 
copies  of  Miles  Standish's,  and  spirits  crowded 
back  into  the  pit  of  youthful  despair,  till  the  old 
clock  in  the  corner  rings  out  ten,  and  perhaps 
a  little  while  after. 

After  the  country  wagons  begin  to  stir  the 
dust  on  the  roads,  they  do  not  stop  to  let  it 
settle  again.  One  family  party  close  behind 
another ;  a  white  horse  pulling  up  behind  a  red 
one,  and  a  lean  beast  chasing  after  a  pot-bellied 
one ;  a  loitering  line  of  sturdy  young  fellows, 
honest  and  lusty,  whose  necks  and  hands  have 
been  tanning  all  the  week  in  the  hot  corn-fields ; 
now  two  maidenly  women  in  bonnets  to  match 
their  years,  —  now  a  hobbling  old  man  who  is 
not  able  to  keep  a  horse,  turning  about  all  the 
while  to  let  the  wagons  pass  him  ;  girls  crowded 
in  on  the  back  seats  at  the  cost  of  much  of  the 
starch  in  their  Sunday  attire  ;  —  these  are  the 
sights  that  give  a  new  face,  on  that  day,  to  the 


54  HOMESPUN. 

landscape.  You  see  nothing  like  it  near  the 
cities ;  you  would  hardly  think  that  such  pic- 
tures could  be  sketched  from  life  anywhere. 

Almost  every  country  meeting-house  has  a 
plat  of  green  grass  before  and  around  it ;  and, 
occasionally,  a  few  trees,  —  old  elms,  or  vigor- 
ous growing  maples.  Commonly,  too,  a  sign- 
post,— the  magnet  for  knots  of  men  before  servi- 
ces open  within,  whereon  they  attentively  study 
the  probate,  town,  and  society's  proclamations. 

It  is  painfully  clear  that  nobody  feels  at  his 
ease  in  his  Sunday  clothes ;  the  efforts  to  ap- 
pear so  only  make  the  fact  more  apparent. 
This  one  is  in  a  sorry  state  of  doubt  about  the 
best  place  for  his  hands,  and  you  guess  he 
wishes  he  could  have  left  them  at  home.  That 
one  puts  little  faith  in  his  feet,  thrusting  forth 
first  one  and  then  the  other,  as  if  they  were  in 
conspiracy  to  play  him  false  and  let  him  down. 
A  third  betrays  his  slight  personal  acquaint- 
ance with  the  hat  he  wears  that  day,  continu- 
ally tipping  it  back  and  pulling  it  forward 
upon  his  head.  Still  another  goes  around 
offering  his  hand  to  everybody,  as  if  he  thought 
there  must  be  some  magic  in  the  town's  palms. 
The  uneasiest  and  unhappiest  one  of  all  laughs 
when  he  catches  anybody  else  laughing,  though 
he  can  give  no  sort  of  reason  why  he  should. 


SUNDAY  IN  THE  COUNTRY.  56 

If  one  of  the  other  sex  chances  to  pass  him  on 
her  way  in,  he  begins  with  throwing  a  glance 
at  her  sneakishly,  and  ends  with  a  square  and 
courageous  turn-about,  studying  the  motions 
of  her  shoes  till  they  take  her  up  the  steps  and 
out  of  his  sight. 

And  they  will  show  just  as  sober  over  these 
matters  as  if  none  could  be  more  serious 
•  among  the  concerns  of  the  world.  But  then, 
their  humor  is  sober,  and  hard,  and  bald,  even 
on  week-days ;  they  do  not  give  it  stretch  and 
play  by  social  contact ;  and  hence  their  Sun- 
day spirits  are  dashed  with  a  kind  of  gloom  it 
would  be  a  hard  matter  to  describe.  Why 
this  is  really  so,  —  why  Sunday  and  a  dejected 
countenance  should  so  regularly  come  together 
in  rustic  experience,  I  am  sure  mine  is  not  the 
gift  to  divine.  One  would  think  it  ought  to 
be  just  otherwise.  To  know  a  visible  God  in 
the  new  blessing  of  the  morning  sunshine,  in 
the  dense  and  cool  shadows  of  the  trees,  in  the 
meadows,  spread  with  their  carpets  of  living 
green,  and  in  the  broad  fields  of  corn  with 
their  ten  thousand  lances  tilting  in  the  early 
breeze ;  to  catch  His  benignant  smile  break- 
ing out  over  the  hill-sides,  over  the  crests  of  the 
rolling  tree-tops,  and  in  the  far-off  blue  of  the 
heavens  ;  to  hear  His  voice  in  every  one  of  the 


56  HOMESPUN. 

sounds  of  air  and  earth,  and  to  feel  profoundly 
the  influence  of  His  presence,  like  that  of  the 
very  atmosphere,  all  around  you,  —  this  is 
what  Sunday  might  be  to  every  man  that 
lives,  and  what  it  surely  ought  to  be  ;  and  this 
it  will  be,  too,  when  we  awake  to  the  visions 
which  a  truly  spiritual  life  scatters  so  plenti- 
fully around  us. 

As   I  look   at   such   matters,   nothing, 

sweeter,  or  purer,  or  more  delicious  to  a  simple 
soul,  can  be  conceived  than  the  unaffected 
singing  of  a  Country  Choir.  There  is  so  little 
scientific  fuss  and  professional  palaver  about 
it.  And  the  melodies  come  out  so  full  and 
clear,  —  a  creation  each  by  itself,  rising  and 
falling  in  its  cadences  like  the  steady  swell  of 
the  sea !  I  know  few  things,  for  myself,  more 
true  and  hearty.  There  stands  the  choral  row, 
male  and  female,  heads  erect  and  mouths 
opened  wide,  letting  out  souls  and  voices  to- 
gether; the  fiddle  squeaking  with  excitement 
to  get  the  lead,  and  the  hard-working  chorister, 
with  quick  eye  thrown  to  one  side  and  the 
other,  actually  singing  down  the  whole!  As 
for  the  melody  itself,  —  so  simple  and  direct, 
so  plaintive,  so  stirring,  filling  the  house  as  with 
a  flood  from  floor  to  ceiling,  and  drifting  out 
through  the  opened  doors  and  windows  into 


SUNDAY  IN  THE   COUNTRY.  57 

the  echoing  street,  —  it  is  enough  to  move  the 
most  worldly  heart  that  ever  tried  to  mint  it- 
self into  money.  One  hardly  thinks  he  catches 
such  seraphic  strains  again,  though  he  goes  all 
the  way  from  New  England  to  Rome. 

Then,  too,  .a  genuine  country  parson's  ser- 
mon is  nothing  like  a  city  clergyman's  dis- 
course ;  and  if  you  go  into  the  interior  to  hear 
one,  you  must  not  expect  to  find  it  so.  Not 
generally  is  much  attention  paid  to  verbal  tac- 
tics, or  to  rhetorical  ornaments,  or  to  brilliancy 
of  metaphor.  The  people  who  listen  want 
about  so  much  plain  talk,  and  so  much  old- 
fashion,  hamrner-and-tongs  logic;  as  for  the 
rest,  it  is  all  "  leather  and  prunella."  In  truth, 
I  grieve  to  tell  that  a  good  many  of  the  pul- 
pits, in  this  last  respect,  have  grown  to  be  hardly 
better  than  scolding-blocks.  Some  of  the  men- 
hearers  sit  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  in  downright 
hot  weather,  and  some  are  drowsing  and  nod- 
ding as  if  in  Elysium  already.  The  sixthlies, 
lastlies,  and  finallies  come  along  after  the  for- 
mer fashion,  and  find  them,  as  the  Master 
found  the  disciples  of  old  time,  fast  asleep. 
Even  the  preacher,  banging  the  dust  with  such 
zeal  out  of  the  faded  cushion,  is  not  able 
to  shatter  or  scatter  their  soothing  Sabbath 
dreams.  Poor  brethren !  they  are  guilty  of  no 


58  HOMESPUN. 

sort  of  fault ;  so  very  hard  has  been  their  work 
in  the  week's  open  air,  when  they  come  to  sit 
down  in  close  meeting  on  Sunday,  it  is  the 
easiest  matter  in  the  world  to  fall  asleep  !  So 
sweet  must  that  sleep  always  be  ;  —  how  dare 
any  self-righteous  looker-on,  with  his  mind  off 
the  sermon,  say  it  is  an  ungodly  one  ! 

The  children  lay  their  heads  in  their  moth- 
ers' laps,  and  shortly  forget  who  they  are  or 
why  they  came.  The  women  —  some  of  them 
—  nibble  somewhat  slyly  at  bunches  of  fennel 
and  dill,  glance  down  on  their  slumbering  off- 
spring, and  fall  to  a  fresh  survey  of  one  an- 
other. In  the  galleries,  the  larger  boys  spread 
themselves  over  the  seats  and  benches,  and  be- 
guile the  heavy  hour  with  studying  the  faces 
of  the  congregation  below,  or  watching  for  the 
last  leaf  of  the  lengthening  sermon.  Out-of- 
doors,  the  horses  stamp  resentfully  under  the 
sting  of  summer  flies,  and,  now  and  then,  a 
motherly  old  mare  sends  forth  a  shrill  whinny 
for  the  young  colt  that  followed  her  from 
manger  to  meeting.  If,  now,  a  stranger,  en- 
tirely unused  to  such  scenes,  could  be  taken 
up  bodily  out  of  the  noisy  world  and  dropped 
into  a  spot  like  this,  it  would  impress  him  with 
such  a  sentiment  as  Sabbath  never  left  upon 
his  heart  before.  He  would  almost  be  driven 


SUNDAY  IN  THE   COUNTRY.  59 

to  wonder  where  he  had  been,  and  what  he 
had  been  doing,  all  his  days,  that  he  had  never 
yet  learned  to  "  keep  "  Sunday  as  it  ought  to 
be  kept  indeed. 

A  long  time  after  service,  you  may  see 

persons  strolling  up  and  down  the  street,  talk- 
ing in  low  and  subdued  voices.  The  air  holds, 
as  Gray  says,  a  "  solemn  stillness."  The  vane 
on  the  meeting-house  steeple  seems  to  swim 
in  the  sky.  Swallows  are  cleaving  the  air  in 
chase  of  evening  insects,  and  emitting  that 
quick  "  chip-chip  "  of  a  cry  which  is  all  they 
have  to  offer  for  an  evening  song.  Boys  — 
barefoot  now,  but  otherwise  in  their  "  Sunday 
best  "  still  —  come  driving  home  a  cow  or  two 
apiece  from  the  near  pastures.  About  their 
back  doors  women  are  making  ready  for  their 
next  day's  washing,  setting  tubs  and  pails 
where  they  will  be  handiest  in  the  early  morn- 
ing. So  silent  are  the  untravelled  country 
roads  now,  streaked  with  tracks  of  green  grass 
as  they  are,  and  ruled  in  with  stone  walls  all 
spattered  with  mosses,  —  the  soothing  delight 
of  loitering  over  them  at  this  contemplative 
hour  can  be  described  by  a  comparison  with 
no  other  known  to  the  worshipful  heart. 

But  this  is  the  summer  picture.  In 

Winter,  matters  take  on  a  sensible  change. 


60  HOMESPUN. 

In  the  first  place,  it  is  noticeable  enough  tha" 
it  makes  all  the  difference  whether  the  eartl 
wears  a  garment  of  grass  or  a  white  robe  of 
snow.  Next,  it  is  sleighs,  instead  of  wagons 
that  bring  the  good  farmers'  families  over  tc 
meeting,  whose  styles  are  as  varied  as  the 
dates  on  which  ambitious  workmen  gave  their. 
a  launch  into  travelling  existence.  Green 
sleighs  and  yellow  ones,  —  high  backs  anc 
low,  —  cutters  and  pungs, — they  slip  along 
over  the  smooth  road  with  a  living  freight  full 
as  miscellaneous  as  the  conveyances  them- 
selves are  oddly  assorted.  The  girls  and  boys 
are  passionately  fond  of  this  mode  of  travel 
whether  it  is  Sunday  or  not.  Brighter  than 
the  shining  of  the  snow  upon  the  ground  is 
the  sparkle  of  their  eyes.  The  jingle  of  the 
straps  of  deep-toned  bells  around  the  horses' 
necks  and  bellies,  wakes  them  as  thoroughly 
as  the  fife  and  drum  at  May  training. 

It  is  a  point  of  horsemanship  with  every 
young  fellow  who  brings  a  girl  along  to  meet- 
ing with  him,  to  "  cut  a  dash  "  or  execute  some 
sort  of  "  curly  Q, "  with  his  steed,  as  he  drives 
him  up  before  the  door ;  and  the  serious  antics 
of  some  of  the  venerable  old  plough-horses, 
coming  up  to  the  steps  with1  curbed  neck  and 
tossing  tails,  are  enough  to  crimson  even  a 


SUNDAY  IN  THE  COUNTRY.  61 

jaundiced  face  with  laughter.  There  in  the 
sleigh-box,  how  snug  and  cosily  they  are 
squeezed  together  under  the  shaggy  robes  ! 
What  an  expression  —  haflf  apology  and  half 
bluster  —  the  gallant  young  reinsman  wears 
on  his  face,  as  he  proceeds  to  hand  out  his 
lady  with  such  a  substantial  jump  upon  the 
steps  !  Behold !  —  alas,  poor  human  nature ! 
—  the  less  fortunate  wights  who  stand  around, 
nudging  one  another  in  a  sort  of  jealous  deris- 
ion, and  making  almost  superhuman  efforts  to 
feel  that  they  would  not  be  concerned  in  that 
kirfd  of  business  for  half  the  entire  town, — 
girls  and  all! 

Through  the  forenoon  services,  no  greater 
discomfort  can  be  imagined  than  to  have  to  sit 
in  a  corner  furthest  from  the  stove ;  but  by 
afternoon,  the  blue  chill  wears  away  a  little. 
Still,  a  fan  in  one's  hand  would  be  not  much 
more  than  a  vain  ornament  even  then.  Many 
straggle  off  to  huddle  close  about  the  hot 
stove,  where  they  complete  the  work  of  baking 
their  heads,  acquire  red  and  heavy  eyes,  and 
discover  that  the  discourse  from  the  pulpit  is  a 
world  too  deep  for  them.  The  rising  winter 
wind  blows  from  every  side  against  the  old 
structure,  straining  its  venerable  joints  and 
racking  its  whole  frame  in  resistance ;  now  it 


62  HOMESPUN. 

goes  whistling  through  the  crevices  of  the  mul- 
tiplied windows  in  a  merry  tune,  and  now  it 
falls  to  scolding  and  howling  like  a  fury  to 
protest  that  it  will  not  be  shut  out. 

In  the  evening  —  for  country  folk  keep  Sat- 
urday rather  than  Sunday  night  —  the  beaux 
are  about,  furnished  with  horses  and  sleighs, 
bells  and  all.  They  do  their  courting  on  Sun- 
day evenings  only,  and  on  alternate  weeks  at 
that ;  but  they  make  their  hours  so  late  that 
they  could  well  afford  to  crowd  the  two  even- 
ings into  one.  With  all  their  natural  flow 
of  spirits,  a  more  serious  class  of  acquaintances, 
when  out  on  these  agreeable  excursions,  no 
rustic  young  lady  could  lay  claim  to ;  brave 
enough,  they  may  be,  on  ordinary  occasions, 
but  at  these  particular  times  the  very  bashful- 
lest  of  cowards.  And  the  girls  sit  and  wait  so 
impatiently  for  the  ring  of  the  bells,  —  for  do 
you  suppose  they  cannot  distinguish  even  the 
sound  of  the  bells  about  the  necks  of  their 
lover's  horses  ?  They  have  made  up  a  bright 
fire  in  the  "  keeping-room  "  on  purpose,  and  are 
bringing  their  feelings  into  a  state  of  as  high 
effervescence  as  the  acquaintance  will  allow. 
Do  you  ask  if  they  feel  the  cold  in  that  rarely 
opened  room  ?  They  would  not  feel  a  chill  if 
there  were  no  fire  there  at  all.  Something 


SUNDA  Y  IN  THE   COUNTRY.  63 

very  different  it-  is,  that  makes  their  cheeks 
flush,  and  their  necks  show  so  deep  a  red. 
'  The  rest  of  the  family  go  to  bed  earlier  on 
Sunday  night  than  on  any  other  in  the  week ; 
their  plan  is,  to  start  fair  and  square  with  the 
next  morning.  One  never  hears  of  Blue  Mon- 
days among  such  people.  If  they  must  be 
thought  blue  at  all,  let  it  by  all  means  be  on 
the  Sundays.  On  that  night  they  wind  their 
eight-day  clocks,  just  like  the  old  clock  in 
Shandy  Hall,  —  those  tall,  high-shouldered 
time-keepers  that  stand  in  square  entries  and 
upon  so  many  broad  stairs.  The  "  meetin' 
clothes  "  of  the  children  are  laid  away  for  an- 
other week,  and  the  old  ones  got  out  again. 
Kindlings  are  split  and  piled  ready  to  fire  up 
on  the  morrow,  and  big  armfuls  of  oak,  and 
ash,  and  hickory,  are  placed  handy  to  the 
hearth  and  stoves. 

Upon    the    steady-going,    industrious 

farmer  of  the  North  and  East  the  influence  of 
the  recurring  Sabbaths  is  incalculably  good  and 
lasting.  If  any  one  needs  repose  more  than  an- 
other, it  is  he.  The  mechanic  of  the  large  cities 
may  rebuild  his  shattered  energies  with  a  jaunt 
up  the  river  or  down  the  bay ;  but  even  this  sort 
of  exhilaration  has  a  far  different  quality  from 
that  which  calms  the  nerves,  cools  the  blood, 


64  HOMESPUN. 

and  equalizes  the  spirits  of  the  sober  country 
farmer.  On  that  one  day,  he  pauses  once 
more  to  consider :  —  wife  and  children  about 
him,  horses  and  cattle  enjoying  their  rest,  and 
he  the  head  and  lord  of  the  whole  domestic  es- 
tablishment, —  he  is  almost  conscious  of  being 
a  patriarch  in  the  land,  and  his  character  looms 
quite  grand  and  columnar  in  the  social  land- 
scape. 

The  fury  and  fuss  of  some  Sundays  else- 
where are  in  sharp  enough  contrast  with  one 
of  these  blessed  Sabbaths  in  the  country. 
From  the  still  hour  when  the  sun  begins  to 
redden  the  east,  the  whole  roll  of  the  hours  is 
holy  in  the  contemplation.  All  objects  seem 
to  be  clothed  in  a  special  Sunday  attire,  —  to 
look  one  in  the  face,  as  it  were,,  and  silently 
say,'"  It  is  Sunday."  The  people  without  ex- 
ception dress  themselves  tidily  and  with  pecul- 
iar care,  from  genuine  respect  for  the  Day  it- 
self. Children  are  held  in  wholesome,  though 
often  in  rigid  restraint,  for  the  same  reason. 
The  very  procession  of  the  hours  seems  slow 
and  solemn,  and  men's  faces  wear  longer  as- 
pects, —  not  as  deceitful  masks  at  all,  but  only 
out  of  a  decent  and  ingrained  regard  for  the 
character  and  associations  of  the  Day. 


HUCKLEBEBETING. 

I  CANNOT  help  thinking  that  the  boy  who 
comes  to  manhood  without  knowing  some- 
thing of  the  simple  and  healthy  pleasures  of 
the  Huckleberry  Pasture,  is  hardly  as  sweet  or 
whole  a  man  for  the  unlucky  omission.  Be- 
cause I  believe  in  my  heart  that  this  same 
huckleberry  field  —  like  many  simple  gratifica- 
tions that  cost  nothing  and  are  little  thought 
of  at  the  time  —  is  a  real  pasture- land  for  the 
spirit  of  the  boy,  whereon  it  feeds  with  an 
eagerness  not  paralleled  by  that  of  any  of  the 
experiences  which  come  afterward. 

Of  the  recurring  delights. of  the  summer- 
time, this  one  of  huckleberrying  assuredly  be- 
longs at  the  top  of  the  list.  It  blossoms  all 
over  with  the  dearest  associations,  which  have 
their  countless  fine  roots  in  the  very  being  ; 
and  these  associations  grow,  too,  along  with 
the  growth  of  the  youthful  heart.  Neither  cir- 
cumstance nor  years  impair  them  ;  they  only 
acquire  a  new  freshness  with  the  lapse  of  time. 
5 


66  HOMESPUN. 

It  is  a  secret  pleasure  of  mine  to  sit  and 

call  up  again,  in  musing  mood,  those  happy 
days  when  a  half  dozen  of  us  boys  just  out  of 
school  used  to  take  our  baskets  and  pails,  and 
tramp  off  a  couple  of  long  and  dusty  miles 
over  a  country  road  for  a  summer  day's  huckle- 
berrying.  We  were  in  the  habit  of  foraging 
for  this  delicious  wild  fruit  in  some  pastures 
that  belonged  to  a  kind  and  honest  man  — 
jest  his  soul !  —  who  was  known  to  us  only  as 
"  Uncle  Elisha."  I  well  remember  the  easy 
gait  we  struck,  when  we  came  near  the  long 
and  winding  lane  that  led  to  the  good  man's 
little  brown  one-and-a-half  story  house,  and 
the  gay,  childish  snatches  we  shouted,  rather 
than  sang,  as  we  trudged  along"  the  cart-path 
across  the  pastures  on  our  way  home  again. 
The  wide-spreading  chestnut-tree  down  in  the 
very  bottom  of  the  meadow  bowl,  stands  out 
green  and  hospitably  umbrageous  before  me 
now,  its  lowest  limbs  kindly  holding  for  us  the 
baskets  and  pails  that  carried  our  frugal  din- 
ners. Ah,  what  a  matchless  sauce  was  that 
which  our  voracious  appetites  supplied  us  with 
then !  I  see,  too,  the  very  bower  by  the  road- 
side, made  by  the  wild  grape-vine  that  had 
seized  hold  of  a  promising  young  apple-tree 
and  compelled  it  to  stand  still  for  the  better  dis- 


HUCKLEBERRYING.  67 

play  of  its  own  leafy  contortions  ;  —  the  same 
vine  next  that  moss-spattered  stone  wall,  in 
whose  sequestered  shadows  we  all  loved  to 
huddle  on  our  return  home  at  sundown. 

I  remember  just  as  well,  too,  how  we  used 
to  lay  the  woolly  mullein  leaves  over  the  glossy 
berries  we  had  picked,  and  secure  them  with 
little  twigs  of  the  huckleberry  bush,  placed  in 
the  form  of  squares,  and  triangles,  and  octa- 
gons, and  stars.  The  old  bars  to  the  pasture, 
of  which  there  were  two  pairs,  and  the  last  of 
which,  at  the  head  of  the  lane,  we  had  to 
climb,  were  a  welcome  landmark  as  we  came 
trooping  up  out  of  the  berry  field  ;  and,  next 
to  these,  I  may  truly  say,  was  the  low  roof  of 
the  house  of  "  Uncle  Elisha,"  and  the  well- 
sweep  that  always  seemed  to  me  to  be  poised 
in  the  air  above  it.  Up  along  through  that 
same  old  lane,  our  young  feet  trod  a  carpet 
whose  like  they  will  never  walk  over  any- 
where again ; — Wiltons  and  Axminsters  may 
not  be  named  with  that  thick  and  verdant  turf 
which  received  them  with  so  soft  a  pressure, 
after  the  long  day's  tramping  among  the  rocks, 
bushes,  and  brambles  of  the  berry  pasture. 
Occasionally,  too,  we  used  to  get  a  drink  of 
new  milk  at  that  same  brown  house  ;  and  it  is 
very  certain  that,  at  such  times,  our  industri- 


68  HOMESPUN. 

ous  field-service  was  duly  paraded  before  the 
eyes  of  the  generous  giver,  basket  after  basket. 
Looking  through  the  vista  of  memory  to  the 
figure  of  "  Uncle  Elisha's "  wife,  as  she  stood 
in  that  low  back-door  with  a  bumper  of  sweet 
milk  for  us  in  her  hand,  I  can  endorse  every 
syllable  the  traveller  Ledyard  so  truly  says 
about  Woman,  and  do  it  with  an  enthusiasm 
entirely  unaffected. 

There  was  still  another  field  to  which 

we  rambled  on  these  fragrant  summer-day  ex- 
cursions. Three  good  miles  distant  was  that, 
and  to  reach  it  we  had  to  cross  a  long,  covered 
toll-bridge.  The  little  light  that  showed  us 
our  way  across  came  in  through  the  wide- 
apart  and  narrow  windows  cut,  like  loop-holes, 
in  its  sides,  at  which  we  used  to  stop  and  look 
down  with  a  strange  fascination  into  the  swift 
current  of  the  water.  My  conscience  will 
never  fully  acquit  me,  I  fear,  of  the  guilt  of 
having  run  that  toll  of  a  penny  on  many  an 
occasion.  The  bridge  was  tended  then  by  a 
brother  of  the  revered  and  scholarly  man,  since 
gone  to  his  heavenly  rest,  who  afterwards 
turned  me  off  his  hands,  declaring  me  fit  for 
college.  ,  That  occurred  to  me  once  as  a 
strange  coincidence  somehow :  in  the  haste 
and  hubbub  of  this  age  of  great  things,  the 


HUCKLEBERRYING.  69 

world  would  not  think  it  worth  naming.  The 
lot  itself,  that  lay  a  couple  of  long  miles  east- 
erly from  this  bridge,  went  by  the  name  of 
"  Marsh  Lot ;  "  we  used  to  speculate  not  a  lit- 
tle among  ourselves,  why  some  people  pre- 
ferred to  call  it  mash  lot. 

There  was  a  story-and-a-half  red  house 
standing  on  the  bleak  knoll  that  commanded  a 
view  of  it;  and  not  a  window,  front  or  rear, 
but  was  "  trimmed "  with  contrasting  white 
paint.  It  is  my  purpose  to  go,  some  day,  ex- 
pressly to  see  if  that  bleak  red  house  is  yet 
standing;  and  then  I  may  ramble  again  —  but 
this  time  it  will  be  without  the  old  time  com- 
panions —  over  the  old  huckleberry  pasture, 
too,  and  suffer  my  heart  to  cry  out,  though  in 
vain,  for  those  it  loved  like  its  own  self  in  those 
halcyon  days  of  existence.  I  shall  look  up 
with  wonder,  no  doubt,  at  trees  which  were 
spindling  saplings  then,  and  find  low  boughs, 
on  which  we  used  to  hang  our  baskets  and 
pails,  now  grown  into  the  air  above  my  head. 

Since  those  days,  Fortune  has  kindly  led 
my  feet  into  quite  as  pleasant  paths  elsewhere  ; 
where  just  as  many  berries  grew,  and  just  as 
much  mullein  abounded  ;  and  these  new  pas- 
tures have  lacked  nothing  in  the  world  to  make 
them  as  dear  to  me  as  the  old  ones,  save  the 
fragrance  of  the  boyish  associations. 


70  HOMESPUN. 

One  of  these  stretches  back  just  across  a 
noisy  little  river  with  a  pretty  Indian  name  — 
The  Natchaug :  hemmed  about,  on  the  north 
and  the  south,  with  a  thrifty  growth  of  wood  ; 
of  extremely  irregular  surface ;  and  sloping, 
where  it  does  not  pitch,  down  to  the  rocky  bed 
of  the  riotous  stream. 

Another  lot  there  was  —  a  distant  pasture- 
land  —  which  we  reached  after  a  good  three- 
mile  ride  over  any  but  smooth  or  level  roads ; 
high  set  and  breezy ;  studded  and  bossed  with 
old  trees  that  stood  far  apart ;  and  seamed 
with  moist  dells  where  the  grass  grew  greener 
than  anywhere  else  around.  One  day  I  cer- 
tainly recall  now,  that  went  calmly  by  with 
me  in  this  lonely  huckleberry  pasture,  so  sweet 
and  pure  in  the  light  of  a  clear  friendship,  so 
full  of  the  music  of  birds  and  wild  bees,  the 
bleating  of  sheep  and  low  tinkle  of  cow-bells, 
that  I  often  think  earth  and  heaven  must  have 
kindly  combined  their  influences,  even  some 
time  before,  to  produce  that  particular  day  for 
my  heart's  everlasting  remembrance. 

It  is  as  much  an  art  to  go  a-huckleber- 

rying  as  to  make  a  sketch  or  a  picture.  In  the 
first  instance,  one  must  feel  himself  in  the  right 
temper,  since  a  spirit  of  inharmony  spoils  all, 
if  it  is  allowed  to  get  the  upper  hand ;  and  that 


HUCKLEBERRYING.  71 

temper  is  to  the  last  degree  one  of  placidity 
and  con  tern  plativeness.  You  go  straight  to 
the  wrong  place,  if  you  start  for  one  of  these 
nooks  in  Nature  with  a  hot  heart,  or  a  fuming 
brain,  and  expect  to  meet  with  sympathizing 
circumstances.  It  is  the  last  of  places  for 
unrest  or  ambition,  if  they  go  for  any  thing  but 
more  wretchedness. 

The  good  home-folk  take  along  baskets  and 
birch-measures  on  their  arms,  and  stroll  lei- 
surely off  through  lanes  that  are  lined  with  the 
dense  black  alders,  and  down  streaked  cart- 
paths,  and  across  patches  of  woodland,  until 
they  come  face  to  face  with  the  inevitable 
Bars  ;  and  by  their  moderate  and  almost  indo- 
lent gait,  one  would  suppose  they  dwelt  in  a 
realm  where  leisure  was  the  law,  and  the  high- 
est energy  of  life  was  covered  up  with  these 
abounding  poetic  similitudes.  They  walk  with 
such  an  apparent  freedom  from  all  care,  so  that 
you  would  say  their  thoughts  hung  as  heed- 
lessly about  them  as  their  garments,  that  the 
whole  landscape  becomes  peopled  thereafter 
with  the  beautiful  spiritual  images  which  they 
excite. 

All  hands  rendezvous  at  the  Bars,  the  larger 
waiting  for  the  little  ones.  This  is  the  point 
of  departure  for  all.  Here  the  baskets  and 


72  HOMESPUN. 

bark  measures  are  distributed,  each  one  taking 
what  represents  his  expertness  and  industry  as 
a  berry-gatherer.  The  favored  younglings  as- 
sume each  his  or  her  allotted  stent,  and  go 
their  noisy  way  over  or  between  the  bars,  to  re- 
ceive such  impressions  on  their  young  hearts 
as  will  last  them  for  a  whole  lifetime. 

Generally,  too,  a  few  stray  geese  are  to  be 
seen  straggling  near  the  border  wall,  whose 
depredations  on  the  fruit  of  the  pastures  are 
much  greater  than  one  who  had  not  observed 
for  himself  would  think  possible.  Or  a  pair  of 
steady  old  oxen,  turned  out  to  graze  and  re- 
cruit, their  necks  relieved  of  the  burdensome 
yoke,  look  up  from  their  odorous  bites  in  the 
yet  dewy  grass,  as  if  they  would  ask  what 
means  this  vociferous  invasion.  So  early  in 
the  morning,  a  thrush  is  to  be  heard  in  the  top 
of  the  birch  hard  by,  caroling  forth  the  joy  his 
little  breast  knows  not  how  to  hold,  and,  it  is 
like,  offering  all  comers  a  gay  welcome  to  the 
ecstasies  of  his  own  liberty.  A  singing  spar- 
row, or  perhaps  a  bustling  little  yellow-poll 
answers  in  the  copse  that  hides  the  hill-side 
spring,  and  straightway  the  whole  slope  is  a 
series  of  songful  cascades. 

Now  they  fall  every  one  to  his  work,  —  for  it 
is  work  indeed  that  they  make  of  it,  —  and  it 


HUCKLEBERRYING.  73 

is  right  here  in  the  open  air,  canopied  with  the 
bare  blue  of  heaven,  the  free  summer  winds 
playing  ever  so  gently  over  the  face,  and  the 
singing  of  birds  and  music  of  waters  pouring 
their  lulling  current  over  the  soul,  that  the 
berry-pickers  chat  as  they  work  and  work  while 
they  chat,  fingers  not  a  whit  busier  than 
tongues  and  both  as  busy  as  they  can  be,  even 
their  gay  gossip  becoming  instantly  purified  in 
this  most  unworldly  of  all  spots  on  earth,  and, 
every  hour,  unconsciously  drinking  in  those  in- 
fluences whose  strength  they  cannot  measure 
now,  but  which  they  will,  at  some  other  time, 
come  to  hold  the  most  precious  of  all  in  their 
history. 

Thus  sprinkled  over  a  berry  pasture,  a  party 
of  rustic  pickers  presents  so  striking  a  scene, 
the  wonder  is  that  no  home  artist,  drawing  in- 
spiration from  the  very  scents  of  our  New 
England  soil,  Iver  thought  to  transfer  it  to  his 
canvas  and  glorify  it  with  the  hues  of  his  own 
imagination.  It  abounds  with  some  of  the 
most  picturesque  points  to  be  found  in  the  still 
home  life  of  the  country. 

As  fast  as  the  little  ones  fill  their  meas- 
ures, they  trudge  to  the  tree  in  whose  shade 
are  ranged  their  baskets  and  pails,  and  proceed 
with  all  deliberateness  to  "  empty  ; "  announc- 


74  HOMESPUN. 

ing,  in  shrill  shouts,  how  full  they  have  at 
this  stage  filled  them.  Gallants  go  off  forag- 
ing, and  come  back  with  armfuls  of  broken 
bushes  for  the  girls  in  the  shade,  with  whom 
they  sit  down  to  pick  and  talk  and  frolic ;  and 
a  marvellous  lot  of  jolly  chat  it  is,  too,  at  these 
same  little  trees  in  the  open  huckleberry  field. 
The  heaps  of  withered  bushes  will  surely  be- 
tray these  cosy  gatherings  under  the  trees  to 
any  one  who  finds  and  laments  them,  the 
summer  after. 

What  a  sweet  and  savory  feast  is  the  frugal 
lunch  at  noon !  —  eaten  out  in  the  air  thus, 
and  under  trees  that  kindly  catch  and  sprinkle 
down  all  the  straggling  breezes ;  washed  down 
with  water  freshly  fetched  by  the  younger  ones 
from  the  hill-side  spring,  that  tastes  of  the  cool 
earth  out  of  whose  bosom  it  was  pressed. 
Even  the  delicious  luncheons  of  the  hay-field 
are  surpassed  for  famous  flavors* and  surround- 
ing fragrance  by  this.  At  that  hour,  the  day's 
stent  has  been  advanced  so  far  as  to  make  it 
pretty  clear  what  each  one's  performance  is  to 
be.  They  take  this  particular  time  to  compare 
notes;  and  now  the  smartest  picker — who  is, 
of  course,  the  stillest  one,  —  receives  the  gen- 
eral praise  without  a  thought  of  envy.  The 
glossy  black  trophies  in  the  basket  are  beau- 


HUCKLEBERRYING.  75 

tiful  to  feast  the  eyes  upon  ;  it  does  not  seem 
possible  that  this  rocky  and  brambly  old  pas- 
ture has  yielded  fruit  in  such  abundance,  and 
of  flavors  of  such  surpassing  delicacy.  By  this 
time,  likewise,  all  faces  are  well  browned  by 
the  wind  and  sun  of  August,  so  that  the  little 
party  seated  under  the  hickory  might  be  mis- 
taken for  a  camp  of  strolling  gypsies. 

And  afterward,  as  the  long  afternoon  hours 
stretch  on  towards  the  sunset,  what  low  and 
sad  cadences  of  song  fall  on  the  sensitive  hear- 
ing from  little  birds  that  domicil  in  the  open 
pastures.  One  feathered  throat  perseveringly 
counsels  all  who  take  the  trouble  to  listen,  to 
"  drink  your  tea  —  drink  your  tea  !  "  —  as  if 
any  possible  decoction  from  over  the  seas  could 
be  better  than  the  limpid  drink  brewed  in  the 
enclosure  of  this  very  home-lot!  The  harsh 
clangor  of  the  geese,  getting  ready  to  take  up 
their  late  afternoon  march  for  a  night  on  the 
bare  ground  under  the  corn-barn,  strikes  a  dif- 
ferent scale  of  associations ;  and  the  dull  and 
regular  stroke  of  the  cow-bell,  monotonous 
campanile  that  it  is,  another  still;  and  yet  a 
different  one,  the  extempore  warble  of  the 
robin  in  a  wild  cherry-tree  near  the  wall ;  and 
yet  another,  the  bark  of  a  distant  watch-dog, 
whose  echoes  seem  to  gather  even  a  sort  of 


76  HOMESPUN. 

melody,  like  the  winding  horn  of  the  hunter,  as 
they  came  circling  across  the  stilt  lake  of  the 
summer  air.  And  all  these  sounds  commingle 
mysteriously  with  other  sounds,  and  again 
with  one  another,  so  that  in  such  a  place  and 
at  such  an  hour,  the  sensitive  and  contempla- 
tive soul  lapses  into  a  mood  of  the  profoundest 
worship. 

Trudging  thoughtfully  home  again  at  night- 
fall, the  sun  throwing  level  beams  across  the 
landscape  and  lodging  them  in  the  tops  of  the 
trees,  and  the  shadows  deepening  in  the  grassy 
lanes  and  damp  lowland  reaches,  it  rises  in 
every  one's  thought  that  this  one  day  out  in 
the  pastures  has  been  the  crown  of  all  the  days 
of  the  year.  Not  often  does  it  indeed  come 
round,  whole  and  entire  like  this,  in  a  single 
season  ;  but  still  it  holds  its  fixed'  place,  like 
the  sweet  Pleiades  in  the  heavens,  in  the  calen- 
dar of  every  passing  year. 

Jaded  and  fagged,  unable  to  go  one  step 
further,  almost  reeling  and  stumbling  into  the 
house,  the  excursionists  finally  bring  in  their 
berries  and  set  them  down  on  the  table,  and 
are  ready  for  bed  as  soon  as  they  have  eaten 
their  frugal  supper. 

Is  there  sweet  sleep  dispensed  for  the  blessed 
anointing  of  mortal  lids,  by  any  of  "  the  drowsy 


HUCKLEBERR  YING. 


77 


syrups  of  the  world,"  like  this  which  rests  on 
the  spirits  of  the  tired  huckleberry  party  ? 

Can  even  childhood  throw  itself  into  the 
arms  of  the  drowsy  god  with  a  perfecter  trust 
in  his  ability  to  bless  with  the  single  blessing 
it  is  too  weary  to  ask  for  ? 


BAEN  LIFE. 

IT  is  the  man  of  the  high  latitudes  chiefly, 
who  strives  to  domesticate  his  sentiments 
and  give  them  a  genuine  home  expression.  The 
inhabitant  of  Constantinople  does  not  seek  a 
like  realization  of  his  desires  with  the  native  of 
the  Swiss  Valley,  or  of  the  green  slopes  of  Eng- 
lish Kent.  The  dweller  among  the  breezy 
New  England  hills  nurses  a  very  different  sen- 
timent concerning  Home  from  his  congener 
around  the  bayous  of  Louisiana,  or  more 
directly  under  the  suns  of  the  tropics.  Hence 
the  Northern  house  wears  another  aspect,  and 
has  entirely  distinct  belongings  from  that  of 
any  other  latitude  and  location.  The  climatic 
needs  being  peculiar,  the  sentiment  that  springs 
out  of  them  must,  perforce,  correspond. 

May  it  not  be  accepted  as  an  universal  truth, 
that  the  love  of  Home  exists  nowhere,  and  is 
incapable  of  actual  expression,  except  it  is  first 
caught  wild  from  Nature,  and  shut  down  under 
ridge-poles  and  sheltering  eaves  and  roofs  ?  Is 


BARN  LIFE.  79 

attachment  to  home  best  bred  in  caves  and 
dens  ?  Can  Nomads  be  called  home-loving  ? 
or  Crowfeet  and  Flatheads  know  by  experience 
of  the  domestic  sentiments  and  virtues  ? 

With  the  Home  goes  the  Barn;  that  is  a 
matter  altogether  of  course.  Hovels  do  not 
require  barns  as  domestic  complements ;  but 
Homes,  with  low  roofs  and  broad  hearths,  do. 
The  Barn  is  as  much  an  object  of  interest  as 
the  dwelling,  and  the  life  that  swarms  and  is 
sheltered  in  the  one  bears  very  close  relation- 
ship to  that  which  hives  in  the  other.  The 
good  husbandman  who  fodders  his  sheep  and 
cattle  within  the  snug  enclosures  of  his  barn 
near  home,  grows  more  attached  to  them  than 
if  he  merely  knew  they  were  browsing  miles 
off  in  the  woods,  or  straggling  without  aim 
across  vast  prairie  lands,  and  here  and  there 
pulling  at  exposed  hay-stacks.  This  love,  too, 
becomes  a  personal  affair,  and,  by  its  operation, 
the  profounder  love  of  locality  and  home  is 
fixed  and  developed.  If  the  man  of  New  Eng- 
land migrates,  it  is  only  for  better  land  and, 
therefore,  a  better  HOME  ;  but  the  man  of  Ten- 
nessee and  Mississippi  moves  farther  on,  that 
he  may  own  a  thousand  ACRES,  in  lieu  of  his 
present  three  hundred. 

It  is  a  fair  study  of  the  growth  of  sentiment 


80  HOMESPUN. 

and  taste,  to  look  about  the  country  and  see 
how  farmers  place  their  barns ;  they  may  be 
estimated  pretty  well  by  so  slight  a  token.  I 
can  go  and  put  my  hand  on  many  and  many 
a  broad  barn-door,  that  discloses  an  interior 
view  pat  before  the  home  windows.  Concern- 
ing the  use  and  value  of  barns,  their  honest 
owners  hold  the  right  idea,  but  happen  to  be 
lamentably  deficient  in  taste;  and,  no  doubt, 
would  frankly  admit  that  they  cared  not  a  wisp 
of  hay  about  it.  They  assume  —  what  is  true 
—  that  the  barn  is  the  workshop  of  the  farm 
establishment,  where  all  labor  and  profit  begins 
and  ends ;  and  hence,  like  men  who  love  their 
money-bags  best  of  all  things,  they  want  the 
workshop  where  they  can  see  it ;  and  even  per- 
mit the  tyrannical  sense  of  smell  to  become 
subordinate,  where  it  should  have  its  way  un- 
challenged. Then,  too,  they  would  have  their 
place  of  business  as  handy  to  the  door  as  may 
be ;  like  the  shoemaker,  with  his  plaything  of 
a  shop  right  in  the  L  of  his  house,  —  or  the 
doctor,  whose  instruments,  jars,  and  saddle- 
bags lie  kicking  about  like  ordinary  household 
trumpery. 

There  are  two  sorts  of  barns,  now-a-days ; 
the  Commercial,  and  the  Picturesque.  Mechi, 
of  London,  writes  overpoweringly  of  the  for- 


BARN  LIFE.  81 

mer,  with  their  famous  plank  floors  and  still 
more  famous  stall-feds,  quite  confusing  you 
with  the  rattle  of  his  estimates  and  figures ; 
the  latter  are  the  barns  —  and  the  only  ones, 
too  —  you  will  find  in  artists'  landscapes,  who 
study,  not  cent,  per  cent.,  but  the  most  striking 
natural  expression.  It  is  these  barns  only,  that 
deserve  place  in  the  landscape  ;  it  is  these  that 
children  love  to  play  in,  on  Saturday  after- 
noons, and  old  men  wander  over  with  hands 
thoughtfully  crossed  behind  them.  These  are 
the  barns  that  rise  to  the  imagination,  on  read- 
ing of  Shakspeare's 

"  rich  leas 

Of  wheat,  rye,  barley,  vetches,  oats  and  peas ; 

Of  turfy  mountains,  where  live  nibbling  sheep, 

And  flat  meads,  thatched  with  stover,  them  to  keep." 

These,  where  the  bleat  of  young  spring  calves 
becomes  musical,  —  and  sly  old  hens  hide  up 
nests  full  of  eggs,  —  and  summer  swallows  twit- 
ter under  the  dark  eaves  in  swarming  colonies, 
—  and  the  big  doors  swing  in  the  wind  with  a 
rusty  creak,  so  sad  that  it  finally  tempers  itself 
in  the  heart  to  a  real  pleasure. 

The  commercial  barns,  the  barns  of  mere 
business,  with  stately  cupolas  that  screen  prin- 
ciples of  ventilation,  —  with  paint,  and  blinds, 
and  lightning-rod,  and  an  equine  vane,  —  elab- 


82  HOMESPUN. 

orate  with  brand-new  bins,  and  stalls,  and  pine- 
smelling  floors, —  such  barns  as  these  are  not 
in  pictures,  are  not  of  Homespun,  are  not  the 
old  brown  barns  that  men  and  children  love, 
and  are  sure  to  love  as  long  as  they  live. 
Somehow,  —  though  it  is  all  natural  enough, 
—  our  friends  of  the  brush  and  palette  catch 
the  tru-e  hints  and  points ;  it  must  be  on  Fal- 
staff  's  principle  of  "  instinct  "  :  —  and  they 
are  careful  never  to  spoil  canvas  with  either 
white  barns  or  new  ones.  They  go  straight 
even  to  a  dilapidated  structure,  with  sagging 
doors  and  billowy  roof,  passing  by  such  as 
merely  cost  and  make  money.  Thus  poverty 
has  its  charm,  which  must  pass  for  one  of  its 
compensations  ;  for  poverty  is  ever  picturesque 
in  Nature. 

I  look  about  for  barns  that  provoke  most 
human  sentiment,  not  those  it  took  the  most 
money  to  build.  Such  are  the  barns  that  go 
with  the  dwelling,  and  are  not  set  off  as  objects 
for  glancing  admiration.  Such  as  these  are 
not  the  barns  that  are  esteemed  better  than  the 
houses  their  owners  live  in.  These  are  low- 
roofed,  and  rambling.  They  abound  with  shelf- 
like  scaffolds  and  irregular  stairs,  with  cunning 
nooks  and  secreted  shadows.  They  are  prima- 
rily for  service,  like  the  men  on  whose  shoulders 


BARN  LIFE.  83 

the  world  rests ;  and  therefore  they  are  unpre- 
tending, and  wear  common  clothes.  In  their 
warm  shelter  crowd  Juno-eyed  oxen,  ruminant 
in  the  twilight  of  the  place,  or  rustling  fresh 
tumbles  of  the  sweet  hay.  Their  floors  are 
broad,  and  have  been  soundly  whipped  with 
old-fashioned  flails ;  and  their  bays  are  both 
deep  and  capacious.  You  can  see  the  clear 
sky  light  pricking  through  the  brown  shingles, 
and  sprinkling  the  whole  hay-mow  with  its 
cerulean  showers ;  as  if  it  would  fain  follow 
the  red-top  and  timothy  even  into  their  winter 
quarters. 

T  love  to  hunt  hens'-nests  in  the  hay,  as  well 
as  the  youngest  child  that  can  climb  old  stairs 
or  straddle  dizzy  cross-beams  and  rafters.  The 
clucking  jades,  with  their  strong  family  instinct, 
manage  to  discover  the  cosiest  nooks  and  se- 
cretest  corners,  —  now  snug  up  against  a  big 
beam  and  now  close  beneath  the  eaves,  under 
the  thatch  of  a  bundle  of  rye  or  cuddled  in  a 
fragrant  cellar-hole  of  their  own  digging  in  the 
hay,  —  where  they  go  every  day  to  deposit  the 
summer  hopes  of  the  yard,  and  afterward  sit 
solitary  and  musing,  waiting  for  the  grass  to 
sprout  and  the  welcome  peep  of  the  new  brood 
to  make  itself  heard.  It  is  "fun"  to  stumble 
upon  these  nests,  for  the  whole  household  es- 


84  HOMESPUN. 

teems  them  such  prizes.  A  cap-full  of  freshly 
laid  eggs,  fetched  into  the  kitchen  without  no- 
tice, creates  a  very  general  family  joy.  I  do 
not  believe  the  adventurer  in  El  Dorado,  who 
has  fallen  on  a  placer  or  struck  suddenly 
upon  a  vein,  feels  a  thrill  of  delight  one  whit 
more  intense  than  the  boy  who,  in  the  de- 
serted old  barn  in  the  spring,  comes  upon  the 
unexpected  treasure  of  a  nest-full  of  hens'  eggs. 
Since  Columbus  broke  his  egg,  in  the  shrewd 
and  simple  spirit  of  "  Poor  Richard,"  to  dis- 
cover and  to  find  has  been  the  delight  of  child 
and  man,  and  probably  will  be  to  the  end  of 
human  history.  Discovery,  in  truth,  is  both 
the  hint  and  pith  of  all  development. 

In  these  same  dear  old  barns,  too,  the  chil- 
dren are  licensed  to  suspend  swings,  where  the 
dreamy  Saturday  afternoons  slip  by  almost 
unrecorded,  but  remain  green  memories  ever 
after.  What  a  multitudinous  patter  of  little 
feet  upon  the  oaken  floor!  What  a  riotous 
chorus  of  voices  throughout  the  rambling  old 
realm !  What  a  musical  tide  of  discordant 
noises,  flowing  out  through  the  open  doors 
over  the  yard!  Now  the  prince  of  the  ring 
sails  up  to  the  big  beam,  just  touching  it  with 
the  tips  of  his  toes ;  and  now  he  is  tossed  back 
to  the  very  chinks  that  let  in  light  so  dimly 


BARN  LIFE.  85 

under  the  eaves,  or  sweeps  ever  so  airily  across 
the  uppermost  scaffold,  on  this  side,  —  and 
hangs,  for  a  second  or  two,  suspended  over  the 
yawning  bay,  on  that.  It  is  delightful,  and  in- 
describable ;  even  the  long  sweep  of  the  swing 
on  the  big  elm  near  the  house  has  no  peculiar 
experience  like  this  of  the  swing  in  the  barn. 

Spring  starts  new  life  in  the  barn  and  its 
precincts,  just  as  in  all  other  places.  A  very 
few  days,  steeped  in  the  flood  of  its  warming 
suns,  are  sufficient  to  empty  all  the  stalls  and 
send  forth  their  occupants  into  the  yards  and 
the  nigh  pastures.  The  oxen  alone  come  home 
at  noon  to  bait,  and  timorous  young  calves  lie 
•with  feet  tucked  under  them  in  the  deep  pens, 
waiting  for  the  coming  of  sundown  and  their 
milky  mothers.  Blue-frocked  butchers  may  be 
seen  scouring  around  the  premises  then,  pick- 
ing up  what  the  winter  may  have  added  or  left 
over.  An  old  turkey  slys  in,  with  a  winking 
eye  and  an  open  ear,  to  peck  at  stray  seeds 
and  keep  the  run  of  the  capacious  establish- 
ment ;  mayhap,  considering  if  a  snug  home- 
nest  somewhere  hereabout  may  not,  after  all, 
be  better  than  to  take  the  chances  of  weather 
and  foxes  under  the  birches  on  the  edge  of  the 
woodland. 

In  the  yellow  autumnal  days,  however,  the 


86  HOMESPUN 

barn  is  in  its  real  glory ;  for  then  it  is  full  to 
bursting,  and  the  farmer's  hopes  are  at  last  gar- 
nered in.  With  hay  packed  and  piled  every- 
where, crammed  and  crowded,  overloading  and 
overrunning,  —  with  oats  all  threshed  and  win- 
nowed, and  poured  into  the  bins  and  barrels, 
—  with  shocks  of  corn  stacked  away  in  all  the 
corners  and  jogs  and  angles,  encroaching  on 
the  floor,  and  allowing  only  narrow  passages 
through  to  the  cattle-stalls,  —  there  broods 
within  the  barn  a  sentiment  of  snugness  and 
warmth,  to  which  few  other  sentiments  are 
precisely  comparable. 

By  scaling  the  hay-mow,  in  the  middle  of 
one  of  these  same  golden  days,  the  sun  falling 
through  the  open  gable  window  across  the 
hay,  I  have  many  a  time  lain  and  heard  mice 
creeping  about  in  their  fragrant  mines  below, 
and  childishly  fancied  them  renewing  former 
acquaintance  in  a  spirit  of  frolicsome  congrat- 
ulation; as  who  should  say  —  "  Is  not  all  this 
fixed  up  for  us  alone?"  Or,  again,  I  have 
caught  the  smothered  voices  of  insects,  exiles 
from  foreign  fields,  that  cling  to  the  hay-stalks 
as  the  last  hope  of  lengthening  their  little  life 
of  summer.  They  utter  cries  burdened  with 
an  indescribable  melancholy,  echoing  in  the 
heart  unspoken  presages  of  decay  and  death. 


BARN  LIFE.  87 

The  various  tribes  are  fairly  represented  here, 
—  the  same  that  colonized,  in  summer's  green- 
ness, on  the  hill-side  slopes,  and  skimmed  the 
thickly-standing  spires  of  herd's-grass  and  fox- 
tail, in  the  meadow.  To  lie  thus  on  the  sweet 
hay  in  autumn,  and  listen  to  these  sounds  in 
the  spirit  of  interpretation,  is  to  live  over  again, 
for  only  a  sunny  strip  of  days,  the  summer  ex- 
periences in  the  meadow  and  beneath  the  trees 
that  dot  the  green  slopes  of  the  upland.  It  is 
but  the  delicious  summer  lessons  conned  once 
more  in  the  lap  of  autumn,  with  all  the  sounds 
and  scents  of  summer  to  impress  them  on  the 
sensitive  memory. 

When  the  great  doors  are  shut,  at  evening, 
and  the  lantern  hangs  from  the  beam  overhead, 
and  a  happy  group  of  men  and  boys  sit  and 
husk  the  yellow  corn  about  the  middle  of  the 
floor,  and  the  round  moon  hangs  luminous  in 
the  autumn  sky, —  the  chickens  all  snug  on 
their  roosts  in  the  apple-trees,  and  the  turkeys 
poised  for  the  night  on  heights  even  above 
them,  —  no  Arab  tent  or  gypsy  encampment 
ever  offered  more  striking  points  of  real  pictur- 
esqueness  ;  the  added  charm  of  the  corn-husk- 
ing scene  comes  from  its  domestic  associations, 
which  the  other  pictures  lack.  The  old  farm- 
ers stint  themselves  to  so  many  ears,  of  an 


88  HOMESPUN. 

evening;  and  they  will  relate  their  exploits 
years  afterward,  when  the  topic  comes  up  for 
friendly  brag  and  comparison.  The  young 
people,  in  particular,  set  great  store  by  these 
times ;  for  there  are  slyer  chances  for  a  kiss,  up 
here  in  the  half-shadows,  than  were  ever  to  be 
found  at  all  the  bees  and  quiltings ;  and  "  gra- 
cious knows  "  how  many  tender  passages  have 
shaped  and  fixed  whole  human  lives  after- 
ward ! 

The  thumping  flails,  through  these  sunny 
and  contemplative  days,  answer  one  another 
from  farm  to  farm  across  the  valleys,  beating 
tattoo  for  the  welcome  harvest-time.  They 
sound  dull  or  ringing,  on  the  hills  and  in  the 
valleys,  as  the  wind  breezes  from  or  toward 
you.  Like  the  loud  tickings  of  the  tall  clock 
in  the  house,  they  notch  off  the  bushels  of 
glossy  grain  that  are  to  be  slipped  into  the 
granary. 

And  when  Winter  has  set  in  with  serious 
intent,  one  can  enjoy  hours  in  the  barn  even 
then,  adding  insensibly  to  the  stores  of  his 
contemplation.  It  is  pleasant  to  see  the  cat- 
tle feeding  in  their  stalls,  after  being  all  well 
housed  and  bedded  for  the  night.  They  hardly 
look  at  you  now,  their  moist  muzzles  so  masked 
with  wisps  of  sweet  fodder ;  but  their  thick 
necks,  - 


BARN  LIFE.  89 

"  whose  throats  have  hanging  at  tnem 

Wallets  of  flesh,"  — 

their  branching  horns,  their  broad  shoulders 
and  brawny  backs  attract  you,  in  spite  of  your- 
self; and  you  stay  only  to  grow  glad,  as  a  child 
would,  in  thinking  of  their  winter  comforts  and 
plenty,  after  a  season  of  such  pleasant  summer 
days  off  in  the  turfy  pastures. 

As  I  have  already  observed,  the  Barn  seems 
to  be  the  farmer's  Study,  where  he  thinks  his 
thoughts,  gathers  together  his  hints,  and  learns 
practically  all  his  lessons;  and  I  have  under- 
taken to  illustrate  a  part  of  this  fancy  with 
some  simple  verses,  that  may  be  none  the  better 
or  wrorse  for  that  singular  quality  :  — 

UP  IN  THE   BARN. 

Old  Farmer  Joe  steps  through  the  doors, 

As  wide  to  him  as  gates  of  Thebes ; 
And,  thoughtful,  walks  about  the  floors 
Whereon  are  piled  his  winter  stores, 

And  counts  the  profits  of  his  glebes. 
I 

Ten  tons  of  timothy  up  there, 

And  four  of  clover  in  the  bay ; 
Eed-top  that  cut  —  well,  middlin'  fair, 
And  bins  of  roots,  oblong  and  square, 

To  help  eke  out  the  crop  of  hay. 


90  HOMESPUN. 

A  dozen  head  of  cattle  stand 

Eeflective  in  the  leaf-strewn  yard ; 

And  stalks  are  stacked  on  every  hand, 

The  latest  offering  of  the  land 

To  labor  long  maintained  and   hard. 

Cart-loads  of  pumpkins  yonder  lie  — 
The  horse  is  feeding  in  his  stall  — 
The  oats  are  bundled  scaffold  high, 
And  peas  and  beans  are  heaped  hard  by, 
As  if  it  were  some  festival. 

At  length  old  Farmer  Joe  sits  down,  — 

A  patch  across  each  of  his  knees  ; 
He  crowds  his  hat  back  on  his  crown, 
Then  clasps  his  hands,  —  so  hard  and  brown, 
And,  like  a  farmer,  takes  his  ease. 

"  How  fast  the  years  do  go  ! "  says  he  ; 

"  It  seems,  in  fact,  but  yesterday, 
That  in  this  very  barn  we  three  — 
David,  Ezekiel,  and  me,  — 

Pitched  in  the  summer  loads  of  hay ! 

"  David,  —  he  sails  his  clippers  now ; 

And  'Zekiel  died  in  Mexico ;  — 
Some  one  must  stay  and  ride  to  plow, 
Get  up  the  horse,  and  milk  a  cow, — 

And  who,  of  course,  but  little  Joe  ? 


BARN  LIFE.  91 

"I  might  have  been  —  I  can't  tell  what!  — 
Who  knows  about  it  till  he  tries?  — 

I  might  have  settled  in  some  spot 

Where  money  is  more  easy  got; 
Perhaps  beneath  Pacific  skies. 

"I might  have  preached,  like  Parson  Duer; 

Or  got  a  livin'  at  the  law; 
I  might  have  gone  to  Congress,  sure; 
I  might  have  kept  a  Water  Cure; 

I  might  have  gone  and  been  —  oh,  pshaw! 

"  For  better  far  it  is  as  't  is ; 

What  fortune  waits  him,  no  man  knows  ; 
What  he  has  got,  that,  sure,  is  his; 
It  makes  no  odds  if  stocks  have  riz, 

Or  politicians  come  to  blows ! 

"  Content  is  rich,  and  somethin'  more  — 
I  think  I  've  heerd  somebody  says ; 

If  't  ever  rains,  it 's  apt  to  pour ; 

And  I  am  rich,  on  this  barn  floor, 
When  all  is  mine  that  I  can  raise ! 

"  I  've  plowed  and  mowed  this  dear  old  farm 

Till  not  a  rod  but  what  I  know ; 
I  've  kept  the  Old  Folks  snug  and  warm, 
And  lived  without  a  twinge  of  harm,  — 

I  don't  care  how  the  storm  might  blow. 


92  HOMESPUN. 

"  And  on  this  same  old  farm  I  '11  stay, 
And  raise  my  cattle  and  my  corn  ; 

Here  shall  these  hairs  turn  wholly  gray; 

These  feet  shall  never  learn  to  stray ;  — 
But  1  will  die  where  I  was  born  !  " 

And  Farmer  Joe  pulled  down  his  hat, 
And  stood  up  on  his  feet  once  more ; 

He  would  not  argue,  after  that, 

But,  like  a  born  aristocrat, 

Kept  on  his  walk  about  the  floor. 


A  MORNING  AT  THE  BEOOK. 

HOW  much  comes  of  association ;  and  that 
is  the  delicious  fruit  of  observation,  of 
temperament,  and  of  time.  A  brook  is,  of 
itself,  an  idle  little  thing  ;  yet  it  possesses  very 
varied  combinations  of  power,  after  it  has  once 
found  its  way  through  a  susceptible  heart.  A 
tree  stands  out  statuesquely  in  the  landscape, 
—  simply  a  tree,  with  head,  stem,  leaves,  and 
branches.  But  we  fall  into  a  pleasant  habit 
of  sitting  in  its  shadow,  and  of  silently  telling 
over  the  stories  of  our  sorrows  and  joys,  of 
our  desires  and  disappointments  to  the  green 
thatch  it  builds  above  our  heads,  —  and  from 
that  day  this  tree  becomes  a  friend,  a  confi- 
dant, and,  in  truth,  a  part  of  our  very  selves. 

Out  of  the  twelve  months  of  the  year, 

June  and  October  are  our  especial  favorites. 
Perhaps  October  is  fuller  of  what  are  really 
deep  delights,  the  atmosphere  then  having  an 
infusion  —  as  the  skyey  cope  has  a  coloring,  — 
of  that  genuinely  spiritual  quality  which  rains 


94  HOMESPUN. 

down  for  the  soul  the  true  manna  of  nourish- 
ment. The  sights  and  sounds  of  delicious 
June  are  possibly  more  sensuous  than  those 
of  dreamy  October ;  the  earth,  the  sky,  waters, 
birds,  trees,  buds,  —  all  are  expressive  of  the 
emphasis  of  promise ;  and  that  presents  its 
appeal  to  the  heart  through  the  senses,  making 
it  leap  up  at  last,  in  its  very  overplus  of  joy. 
But  Nature  is  especially  given  to  contrasts ; 
thus  she  produces  her  finest  effects.  June 
being  so  wholly  distinct  from  October,  its  very 
name  reading  like  a  poem  in  the  calendar,  it 
might  be  expected  that  the  experiences  it 
brings  freshly  every  year  might  be  distinct 
also. 

June  is  the  eastern,  as  October  is  the  west- 
ern gate  of  the  Year.  She  trips  in  across  a 
carpet  of  brightest  verdure,  the  posts  and  pil- 
lars and  arch  at  the  entrance  clustered  with 
vines  and  burdened  with  roses.  She  goes  out 
in  majestic  pomp  and  state,  canopied  with  skies 
that  reflect  dazzling  hues,  the  cool  green  trans- 
muted now  to  scarlet  and  purple,  orange  and 
gold.  Yet.  June  does  but  throw  October  into 
brighter  and  more  beautiful  relief.  Each  makes 
a  fine  foil  for  the  other.  And,  for  ourselves, 
having  so  long  been  in  the  habit  of  coupling 
these  heavenly  months,  it  never  falls  to  our 


A  MORNING  AT  THE  BROOK.          95 

lortune  to  enjoy  the  one  without  thinking  of 
the  other  also.  In  our  heart,  they  were  always 
twinned.  Their  names  alone  are  like  boxes 
that  are  compacted  with  the  fragrance  of  pecu- 
liar delights.  It  is  needless  for  us  moderns  to 
hope  to  surpass  the  underrated  ancients  in  the 
bestowal  of  nomenclatures  that  are  indeed  po- 
etic. 

A  June  morning  was  newly  bom  to  us 

Aiot  many  months  ago,  of  which  we  feel  very 
certain  that  we  had  dreams  beforehand,  for 
many  a  year.  It  is  true,  we  had  drunk  the 
breath  of  many  a  June  morning  in  its  beauty, 
but  of  none  before  like  this.  It  was  ours,  the 
moment  it  dawned,  and  as  such  it  was  in- 
stinctively laid  hold  of.  So,  indeed,  do  all 
things  in  nature  belong  to  us,  if  we  could  but 
trace  the  divine  right  of  possession  and  use. 

We  awoke  with  the  low  trill  of  the  earliest 
bird  —  the  song  of  a  tawny-breasted  robin, 
whose  little  heart  was  swelling  with  love  for 
its  household  treasures  in  a  tree  hard  by.  With 
that  first  gush  of  song  our  soul  came  to  life 
again.  While  the  morning's  gray  still  envel- 
oped everything  out  of  doors,  and  the  rustic 
household  continued  its  sleep  of  an  innocent 
care,  we  made  haste  to  put  on  our  daily  attire, 


96  HOMESPUN. 

and  crept  silently  down  the  stairs  and  through 
the  passages.  Hastily  disposing  of  a  cold  bite, 
and  swallowing  a  draught  of  sweet  "  night's 
milk  "  with  the  cream  clotting  the  surface,  we 
pocketed  the  well-scoured  angle-dogs,  shoul- 
dered our  birch  fishing-rod,  and  sallied  forth  for 
a  little  thread  of  a  brook  whose  every  way- 
ward twist  and  turn  had  long  been  perfectly 
familiar. 

It  cost  a  tramp  of  a  mile  or  more.  The 
dust  in  the  country  road  lay  a  little  matted 
under  the  dews,  while,  as  we  trudged  on,  we 
caught  the  ever  welcome  sound  of  cattle  low- 
ing in  the  pastures,  on  this  side  and  the  other, 
impatient  for  the  return  of  companions  that 
were  yarded  the  night  before.  There  was  not 
the  lightest  breath  of  a  breeze  astir.  Now  and 
then,  an  early  bird  flitted  across  from  one  road- 
side covert  to  another,  offering  us  the  wel- 
come of  a  true  fellowship  with  a  quick  chirp 
and  the  flirt  of  a  brown  wing.  The  dappled 
east  was  rapidly  becoming  glorified  with  the 
colors  that  were  beginning  to  pile  themselves 
in  such  splendid  disarray.  As  we  pushed  on 
up  the  road,  more  solitary  in  thought  than  if 
the  hour  were  that  of  midnight,  it  very  forcibly 
occurred  to  us  how  much  they  were  the  losers 
who  never  left  their  beds  out  of  the  accus- 


A  MORNING   AT  THE  BROOK.  97 

tomed  hours.  Here  was  a  little  fresh  morning 
jaunt,  now,-  worth  a  good  many  times  the 
trouble  it  cost,  for  it  took  us  almost  insensibly 
into  the  realm  of  new  experiences. 

We  scaled  some  mossy  bars,  ranged  off 
down  a  slope  among  a  few  stunted  apple-trees, 
and,  to  be  brief,  were  not  long  in  reaching  the 
brookside.  Close  by  was  a  strip  of  woods ; 
into  which  we  plunged  for  a  few  minutes  only, 
that  no  possible  impression  of  the  morning 
might  be  lost  upon  us.  In  that  cool  twilight 
which  seemed  braided  by  bough  and  leaf,  the 
bird  family  were  just  getting  up  and  coming 
down  from  their  airy  chambers.  They  called 
gayly  one  to  another  from  out  the  windows  of 
their  different  apartments,  as  if  asking  of  £he 
new  morning  that  re-created  the  world  for 
them ;  and  their  piping  voices  echoed  through 
every  sylvan  arch  and  along  every  leafy  corri- 
dor. The  green  and  velvety  mosses  under 
foot  were  scarcely  damp,  and  the  short  grasses 
hardly  held  a  pearl  on  the  points  of  all  their 
blades,  such  complete  protection  the  dense 
umbrage  offered  against  the  night  dews. 

In  the  heart  of  the  morning  silence  —  which 

is    an    awakening    rather    than    a    dreaming 

silence  —  we   were   startled   by   the   noise  of 

young  cattle  roving  through  the  wood,  break- 

7 


98  ,          HOMESPUN. 

ing  down  the  tender  undergrowth  of  shrub 
and  brush,  and  half-boldly,  half-timidly  advanc- 
ing within  eye-shot  of  so  unfamiliar  an  intruder. 
Their  wild  eyes,  answering  to  the  Homeric 
epithet,  were  as  full  of  lustre  as  the  beads  of 
dew  that  Night  had  scattered  over  the  grass  of 
the  meadow. 

Emerging  from  this  verdurous  temple,  and 
leaving  the  happy  birds  behind  us,  we  crept 
stealthily  down  to  the  edge  of  the  wimpling 
stream,  and  made  the  first  cast  of  the  morn- 
ing. The  brook,  where  we  stood,  was  scarcely 
bigger  than  our  body,  —  which  we  cannot  in 
conscience  assert  has  not  waxed  somewhat 
since  that  day;  and  the  shy  little  Naiad 
seemed  trying  to  hide  itself  among  the  sedges 
and  under  the  long,  rushy  grasses.  We  stood 
knee-deep  now  in  the  wet  and  matted  jungle 
of  the  morning,  while  all  around  us,  in  among 
the  slender  stems  of  the  grass,  insects  without 
name  or  number  were  just  starting  up  to  en- 
joy the  gay  sport  of  their  span-long  summer 
existence.  And  while  in  this  half-surprised 
posture,  up  came  the  naming  sun  over  the 
eastern  hills,  and  began  pouring  its  golden 
glory  like  a  flood  into  the  sparkling  basin  of 
the  meadow. 

As  we  tramped  along,  making  a  fresh  cast 


A   MORNING  AT  THE  BROOK.          99 

of  the  line  with  every  few  steps,  and  leaving 
but  a  single  trail  in  the  heavy  grass  behind  us, 
each  advance  revealed  to  the  delighted  eye 
newer  and  expanded  charms.  Now  the  spirit 
took  in  the  meaning  of  the  freshness  and 
sweet  fragrance  of  Morning.  Snatches  from 
the  rural  poets  came  singing  their  way  into 
our  heart,  like  golden-zoned  bees  driving 
homeward  with  their  freights  of  honey.  Over 
night,  the  busy  spiders,  with  the  instinct  of 
Penelope,  had  spun  slenderest  ropes  of  very 
gossamer,  and  swung  them  across  from  one 
grass-spire  to  another,  each  rope,  like  a  sus- 
pension bridge,  heavy  with  its  string  of  pearly 
dews,  which  the  fancy  delighted  to  believe 
early  passengers. 

We  frightened  a  callow  bird  out  of  his  hid- 
ing-place among  the  tussocks,  where  he  was 
squatted  with  upturned  bill,  waiting  in  dumb 
patience  for  the  coming  of  his  provident 
mother.  A  lithe  and  string-like  black  snake 
uncoiled  himself  from  the  fork  of  an  alder- 
bush,  and  slid  down  with  a  slump,  that  is  in 
our  ears  now,  into  the  water.  The  homely 
chewink  advertised  us  of  her  brisk  where- 
abouts, by  her  musical  monotone  in  the  neigh- 
boring thicket  of  birches.  A  gay  little  yellow- 
poll  played  an  eager  air  on  his  bagpipe,  as  if 


100  HOMESPUN. 

he  would  frankly  ask  us  how  we  liked  that,  so 
bright  and  early  in  the  morning.  The  poly- 
glottal  bobolink  careered  in  a  sort  of  drunken 
delight  across  the  level  stretch  of  meadow,  and 
alighted  on  a  frail  rush  stem  at  last,  to  swing 
out  the  rest  of  the  little  joy  he  had  not  strength 
to  sing-. 

By  and  by,  the  voices  of  boys  could  be 
heard  over  on  the  opposite  hill-sides,  screaming 
their  shrill  "  Go-long  !  "  to  cows  that  were  too 
slow  for  their  temper.  Next,  the  hissing  sound 
of  scythes,  grinding  for  the  morning's  work 
down  in  the  mowing.  Then  a  cart,  rattling 
with  a  great  noise  over  a  stony  length  of  the 
road.  And  now,  cattle  lowing  to  one  another 
from  all  the  hill-sides,  —  and  young  calves 
bleating,  —  and  the  whole  day  fairly  awake 
with  its  sounds  of  life  and  activity.  Still, 
along  down  through  the  meadow  we  pursued 
our  devious  way,  casting  and  recasting  our 
line  in  the  water,  twisting  our  path  just  as  the 
little  brook  twisted  its  own  course,  —  errant 
and  tortuous,  —  that  kept  whispering  and  smil- 
ing, prattling  and  laughing  to  us,  till  we  ached 
to  know  of  what  pleasant  secret  the  sprite 
would  wish  to  unburden  itself  to  our  ears. 

How  many  speckled  beauties  were 

ours,  as  a  tribute  from  the  little  brook  that 


A   MORNING  AT   THE  BROOK.        101 

morning,  a  peep  into  our  creel  would  have 
readily  disclosed ;  but  we  found  finer  things 
to  feed  on  than  trouts  in  that  charmed  spot, 
greatly  as  we  admire  and  love  even  them. 

Such  a  morning,  three  good  hours  long  as 
we  made  it,  lies  in  my  memory  now  like  the 
fresh  picture  of  a  world  of  which  we  feel  that, 
in  some  previous  existence,  perhaps,  we  may 
once  have  dreamed.  It  was  every  whit  itself. 
Nothing  else  could  be  like  it.  It  would  be 
styled  a  very  cheap  pleasure  by  many,  because 
there  was  no  carriage  hire  needed  to  reach  it ; 
but  such  are  the  only  pleasures,  let  us  remem- 
ber, that  are  afterwards  called  up  as  the  green 
spots  of  the  lifetime.  Nothing  of  this  sort  can 
be  found  up  for  sale.  Money  bears  no  relation 
to  it.  High  health,  deep  lungs,  an  open  eye, 
ready  perceptions,  and  a  fresh  and  innocent 
heart,  —  these  are  all  the  few  and  simple  con- 
ditions. 

And  yet  the  world  hurries  to  Newport  and 
the  Springs  for  pleasure,  and  is  bored  to  death 
with  the  delight?  it  enjoys  in  such  surfeit !  A 
little  idle  brook,  romping  out  of  the  alder  thick- 
ets and  stealing  down  through  the  open  mead- 
ows, shall,  for  true  tranquility  and  genuine 
satisfaction,  put  all  their  artifices  to  shame. 
We  never  turn  away  our  face  from  the  brook- 


102  HOMESPUN. 

side  and  start  homewards,  without  repeating 
the  exquisite  lines  quoted  by  gentle  Izaak  Wal- 
ton and  credited  by  the  Father  of  Angling  to 
Sir  Henry  Wotton  :  — 

"  May  pure  contents 
Forever  pitch  their  tents 

Upon  these  downs,  these  meads,  these  rocks,  these  mountains ; 

And  peace  still  slumber  by  these  purling  fountains, 
Which  we  may  every  year 
Meet  when  we  come  a-fishing  here.1' 


OUR  AUNT. 

SHE  was  just  seventy  when  she  died ;  but 
we  never  seemed  to  think,  till  then,  of 
her  being  any  older  than  on  the  day  she  was 
forty.  She  inherited  youth  to  a  most  generous 
degree  :  —  the  new  morning  was  not  more  fresh 
than  the  flow  of  her  spirits. 

Most  people  associate  Aunts  with  sharp- 
edged  words,  and  phrases  that  might  have  been 
run  in  an  iron  mould ;  with  suspicious  super- 
vision, two  wrinkles  between  the  eyes,  and  a 
voice  from  which  drop  the  distillations  of  any- 
thing but  honey.  Addison  describes  them,  in 
one  of  the  numbers  of  the  "  Spectator,"  as 
"  antiquated  Sybils,  that  forebode  and  pro- 
phesy from  one  end  of  the  year  to  the  other ; " 
and  in  too  many  cases  they  are  quite  content 
to  answer  to  the  description.  It  would  out- 
rage my  feelings  beyond  account,  however,  to 
compare  our  Aunt  with  the  common  run  of 
Aunts  who  may  be  catalogued  under  one  or 
the  other  of  the  foregoing  descriptions. 


104  HOMESPUN. 

She  was  a  great  lover  of  Nature's  own  things. 
The  stay-behind  robins  knew  at  whose  door 
they  could  get  free  board  —  with  lodgings 
about  the  barn  and  sheds  —  through  the  weary, 
dreary  winter  ;  and  the  woodpeckers  and  snow- 
birds understood,  with  no  further  telling,  that 
the  meaty  bones,  hung  at  the  back  of  the 
house,  were  exclusively  for  their  picking.  Chil- 
dren were  not  more  alive,  in  the  dawn  of  the 
June  mornings,  to  catch  the  earliest  note  of  the 
three  o'clock  robin,  or  to  find  their  round  nests- 
full  of  eggs  snugged  away  under  the  leaves. 
So  fresh  a  heart  is  childhood's  own  ;  but  she 
had  it,  and  she  kept  it,  too,  up  to  the  day  she 
became  three-score  and  ten.  For  even  while 
she  lay,  one  April  afternoon,  on  the  bed  on 
which  she  shortly  after  died,  she  lifted  her  head 
to  greet,  as  she  would  a  personal  friend,  the 
pretty  blue  jay  that  flew  to  the  low  roof  close 
by  and  tried  to  look  in  at  her  window.  —  It  was 
a  touch  of  nature  that  started  tears  in  the  eyes 
that  witnessed  such  simplicity  of  affection. 

Among  the  children,  while  they  were  coming 
on  and  coming  up,  she  was  esteemed  almost 
like  an  own  mother.  They  never  felt  a  twinge 
of  fear  in  her  presence,  but  rather  sought  the 
magnetism  of  her  smiles  and  the  glad  conta- 
gion of  her  humor.  She  was  young  once  more 


OUR  AUNT.  105 

with  them;  and  as  they  grew  in  years  and  in 
wisdom,  she  managed,  with  the  help  of  her 
warm  and  ready  sympathies,  to  keep  pace  with 
them,  too.  It  was  all  very  beautiful ;  I  take  it 
upon  me  to  say  that  no  other  family  group 
ever  furnished  an  Aunt  in  this  respect  the  par- 
allel of  ours. 

An  Aunt  is  too  apt  to  be  a  sort  of  nightmare 
in  a  house ;  children  conceal  everything  they 
can  from  her :  —  but  our  Aunt  was  made  a 
repository  of  all  the  precious  secrets  there  were 
on  foot.  She  gave  us  counsel  and  made  us 
fun.  Her  dignity  was  imbedded  in  her  char- 
acter, not  pinned  on  to  the  surface  of  her  gown, 
or  starched  into  the  high  crown  of  her  cap. 
For  childish  low  spirits  or  moodiness  she  was 
an  all-cure.  She  never  shed  tears,  and  would 
not  revive  sorrows.  Her  whole  life  was  in  Zit?- 
ing-,  not  in  a  vague  hope  that  she  would  do  so 
after  present  troubles  were  past.  Every  anec- 
dote that  had  currency  in  her  own  youth  she 
gayly  reproduced  for  the  illustration  of  ours ; 
every  odd  phrase  she  could  call  up  from  the 
recollections  of  a  generation  that  went  before 
ours,  she  passed  around  in  our  little  circle  like 
good  coin  that  had  been  clipped.  Her  own 
school-days  were  somehow  made  to  fit  into  our 
school-days  ;  the  beaux  of  her  time  found  their 


106  HOMESPUN. 

reproduction  in  the  gallants  of  ours  ;  she  never 
tired  of  repeating  the  unique  sayings  of  her 
earlier  days,  nor  did  we  of  listening  to  her. 
She  turned  every  accident  humorously,  and  so 
taught  us  by  example  how  to  defy  disappoint- 
ment. If  things  had  gone  wrong  heretofore, 
they  were  sure  to  come  right  by  and  by. 
Hopefulness  was  as  generously  hers  as  mirth  ; 
and  both  combined  to  form  a  third  quality  of 
cheerfulness  that  made  sunshine  around  her  in 
the  cloudiest  day. 

And  maiden  aunt  though  she  was,  no  one 
ever  felt  her  to  be  one  of  those  "  proper  "  bodies 
whose  presence  seems  to  make  the  atmosphere 
thick  and  heavy.  There  was  no  taint  of  judi- 
cial severity  about  her;  she  enjoyed  far  too 
much  to  let  it  effervesce  or  waste  in  criticism. 
She  had  been  gifted  with  such  generous  store 
of  genuine  sentiment  or  sympathy,  it  was  no 
office  of  hers  to  be  following  up  others  with  the 
everlasting  line  and  plummet.  Those  who  have 
been  wont  to  run  from  maiden  aunts  would 
assuredly  have  run  toward  her.  Cheerfulness 
in  persons  of  ripened  years  is  always  attractive 
and  charming ;  but  in  her,  even  mirth  was  pe- 
culiarly becoming.  None  had  a  heartier  relish 
of  innocent  laughter  than  she  ;  and  she  was  a 
practised  hand  in  the  art  of  provoking  it  be- 


OUR  AUNT.  107 

sides.  Saintly  and  affectionate  as  she  was  at 
heart,  and  simple  and  sweet  as  her  nature  was 
all  the  way  through,  there  was  no  lack,  either, 
of  the  fine  clay  of  earthliness  which  makes  of 
our  ideal  delights  a  present  reality.  If  she 
knew  what  affection  was  worth,  and  how  to 
bestow  it,  too,  she  likewise  understood  what 
a  genial  stimulant  it  always  found  in  a  bright 
fire,  a  warm  room,  and  an  attractively  spread 
table.  She  believed  in  the  substantials,  while 
her  heart  was  none  the  less  open  to  the  waver- 
ing, floating  dreams  of  the  invisible. 

I  realize  now  what  a  comfort  it  used  to 
be  to  her,  —  and  what  a  blessed  memory  it 
will  always  remain  to  me,  —  for  me  to  sit  with 
her  in  her  chamber,  of  quiet  Sunday  afternoons, 
and  read  aloud  her  favorite  chapters  and  pas- 
sages in  the  old  Bible  that  always  lay  on  the 
little  stand  in  the  corner.  The  sublime  sim- 
plicity of  Job  affected  her ;  I  knew  that  she 
was  conscious  of  the  temporary  rapture  of  feel- 
ing, equally  with  him  who  sat  and  read  on. 
Her  charity  and  long-suffering  were  truly  be- 
yond description's  reach  ;  she  was  patient  and 
forgiving  when  many  of  us  would  indeed  lose 
our  own  patience  for  her.  We  never  heard 
murmurs  from  her  lips;  she  of  course  had  dis- 
appointments, like  the  rest  of  us,  but  she  had 


108  HOMESPUN. 

no  complaint  to  make  of  them  ;  neither,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  she  entirely  indifferent  to  the 
turns  and  changes  of  fortune  ;  —  but  a  spirit  of 
repining  never  could  find  a  place  to  build  its 
nest  in  that  happy  heart.  Whoever  sorrowed 
and  lamented  in  her  presence,  found  but  poor 
companionship. 

—  How  shall  I  write  of  her  spinning- 
wheel —  an  heir-loom  in  the  family  —  which 
she  kept  buzzing  every  winter  until  the  last  one 
of  her  life,  though  the  days  of  hand-spinning 
were  long  ago  over?  She  averred  that  she 
spun  merely  to  perpetuate  the  good  old  cus- 
tom. The  old  wheel  stood  in  the  attic,  and 
there,  weather  permitting,  she  went  off  alone 
with  her  rolls  of  white  wool,  and  presently 
made  the  rafters  vibrate  with  its  droning 
music.  We  used  to  go  softly  to  the  stairs,  and 
listen  to  her  as  she  kept  up  singing  and  spin- 
ning together;  —  nobody  would  have  said  that 
house  lacked  for  a  light  heart  then.  —  The 
Past  must  have  vividly  reproduced  itself  in  this 
chosen  solitariness  of  hers,  and  father,  mother, 
and  grandparents  must  have  seemed  to  make 
their  appearance  almost  with  the  starting  of 
the  wheel. 

I  never  came  home  from  a  tramp  along  the 
brookside  for  trout,  but  she  displayed  all  the 


OUR  AUNT.  109 

eagerness  of  a  child  to  know  my  luck ;  and 
she  would  stand  and  contemplate  the  spotted 
beauties  as  I  drew  them  forth  from  my  basket, 
with  a  satisfaction  almost  the  parallel  of  my 
own.  And  whatever  trophies  I  brought  to  the 
house 'from  the  swamps  or  hill-sides,  or  from 
the  berry  pastures  —  whether  wild  flowers,  or 
pretty  birds'-nests  which  I  had  found  deserted, 
or  baskets  of  glossy  berries  —  got  as  earnest  a 
welcome  at  her  hands  as  if  she  were  young 
along  with  me,  and  only  regretted  that  she,  too, 
could  not  be  out  of  doors  through  all  the  pleas- 
ant weather.  My  own  field  stories  she  matched 
with  hers  ;  and  she  betrayed  as  close  and  pa- 
tient observation  of  life  in  the  meadows  and 
along  the  edge  of  the  hill-sides  as  if  she  were  a 
born  naturalist. 

Whenever  she  went  idly  scouting  across  the 
soft  turf  of  the  orchard,  or  the  mowing,  or  the 
pasture,  she  invariably  carried  in  her  hand  a 
long  stick,  partly  for  support,  but  chiefly  to 
poke  about  and  hunt  up  with ;  that  stick  was 
thrust  into  every  hiding-place  where  it  was 
thought  a  guinea's  nest  might  be  laid  away ; 
kindly  helped  her  across  the  moist  places  and 
glistening  little  runnels  ;  raked  away  the  leaves 
from  the  brown  chestnuts  that  were  rained 
down  in  autumn  ;  and  was  at  last  laid  on  the 


110  HOMESPUN. 

wall,  or  stood  against  the  back  shed,  when  she 
reached  the  door  of  Home  again. 

It  was  a  passion  with  her  to  raise  turkeys ; 
and  inasmuch  as  the  sly  old  jades  loved  to  roam 
off  into  the  edge  of  the  woods  back  of  the  house, 
I  am  grateful  for  being  permitted  to  remember 
the  times  I  have  beaten  up  those  woods  for 
her,  beginning  pretty  early  in  March,  to  solve 
the  problem  of  her  turkeys'  prolonged  absence. 
She  had  as  anxious  and  tender  a  care  for  the 
young  poults,  after  they  broke  the  shell,  as  if  they 
had  been  her  very  children  ;  fetching  them  into 
the  house  over  night  —  the  weaklings  among 
them  —  and  nursing  and  coddling  them  up 
with  such  various  preparations  as  the  lives  of 
BO  many  generations  of  turkeys  have  depended 
upon.  Just  before  bedtime,  it  was  slightly 
amusing  to  go  out  into  the  kitchen  and  "  stir 
up"  her  feathered  hospital  near  the  stove,  or 
on  the  warmed  hearth.  In  her  thoughts,  the 
spring  was  associated  with  the  coming  off  of 
hens  with  their  downy  broods,  just  as  much  as 
with  the  sprouting  of  cowslips  and  dandelions. 
No  poet  ever  wove  tenderer  sentiments  on  that 
joyful  season  into  the  staple  of  his  verse. 

Few  came  to  the  house  to  stay,  who  had  not 
thought  beforehand  as  much  of  enjoying  the 
company  of  our  Aunt  as  of  the  best  of  us. 


OUR  AUNT.  Ill 

And  in  calling  up  pleasant  reminiscences  of 
their  visits,  long  afterward,  her  name  rose  al- 
most the  first  of  all  on  their  lips.  The  house 
was  much  the  sunnier  because  of  her  presence. 
She  could  not  bear  trouble,  but  preferred  to 
drive  it  off  with  laughter  and  light-hearted  ness. 
I  did  not  touch  the  depth  of  her  philosophy 
then ;  but  I  see  now  how  much  she  gained, 
and  everybody  else  can  gain,  by  refusing  hos- 
pitality to  thoughts  of  trouble  and  bolting  the 
door  of  the  heart  against  the  messengers  of 
low  spirits.  She  wasted  no  part  of  her  life  in 
standing  and  parleying  with  these  dismal  shad- 
ows. Where  she  was,  we  were  sure  to  find 
bright  skies.  The  influence  of  such  a  person 
over  a  family  of  children,  when  exerted  day  by 
day  for  a  regular  course  of  years,  while  the 
plastic  nature  is  receiving  the  most  delicate  im- 
pressions, can  hardly  be  put  into  expression, 
for  it  can  be  estimated  only  through  the  term 
of  a  whole  life. 

We  stood  about  her  open  grave  on  a 

soft  day  in  April,  which  seemed,  with  two  or 
three  kindred  days,  to  have  been  slipped  into 
the  calendar  of  our  uncertain  springs,  as  Na- 
ture's own  gentle  tribute  to  her  memory.  Not 
all  the  praises  of  the  world,  had  they  been  re- 
cited for  her  sainted  name  then,  could  have 


112  HOMESPUN. 

been  so  welcome  and  so  precious  to  us  as 
this  bright  and  open  favor  which  was  silently 
dropped  out  of  the  blue  skies.  The  grass  was 
starting  along  the  country  roadsides,  and  its 
shades  of  green  showed  daintily  up  the  slopes. 
The  meadows  just  over  the  stone  walls  were 
moist. with  the  spring  rains,  and  the  rivulets 
glistened  in  the  distance  with  laughing  glad- 
ness at  their  release.  The  beautiful  day  was 
so  like  her  own  spirit ;  sunny,  cheerful,  and 
calm.  Our^  sadness  received  a  sharper  edge  for 
so  obvious  an  association. 

I  shall  never  pluck  the  wild  flowers  of 

spring  by  the  woodside  again,  but  my  thoughts 
will  go  straight  to  her.  I  shall  not  wander  in 
the  huckleberry  pastures  and  gather  handfuls 
of  the  glossy  fruit  she  loved  herself  to  pick, 
without  feeling  her  very  presence.  Up  in  the 
attic,  I  shall  always  seem  to  hear  her  voice. 
When  we  all  assemble  again  in  the  old  rooms 
of  Home,  it  will  not  be  as  it  used  to  be,  with- 
out her.  It  is  the  blessing  of  a  life  to  have 
had  such  a  good  soul  to  love.  Childhood  is 
so  much  the  richer  for  it,  and  the  after  years 
are  penetrated  with  the  influence  to  their  end. 


AUTUMN  DATS. 

ON  him  who  goes  forth  into  the  woods  and 
fields  during  these  ripe  autumnal  days,  in 
a  spirit  suffused  with  gentleness,  and  peace, 
and  all  the  harmonies  of  the  time,  there  de- 
scends an  influence  that  makes  the  face  of 
Nature  into  a  new  picture,  and  draws  from  it 
an  expression  which  the  heart  loves  to  brood 
upon  in  the  sweet  silence  of  contemplation. 

The  spell  is  a  strange  one  that  works  with 
such  potency  through  the  placid  passage  of 
these  golden  days,  eluding  analysis  or  explana- 
tion. So  gauzy  is  the  airiness  with  which  the 
halo  veils  woods  and  waters,  meadow  and  hill- 
side, that  it  at  length  comes  to  envelop  the 
sympathetic  spirit's  self  in  its  welcome  folds, 
and  discovers  to  the  penetrating  vision  dreams 
which  are  of  rest,  and  bliss,  and  heaven. 

How  many  are  the  enticements  which  pre- 
sent themselves  out-doors,  at  this  time  !  There 
is  too  much  heat,  and  a  feeling  of  lassitude,  in 
the  daily  development  of  Spring ;  but  now,  all 


114  HOMESPUN. 

is  so  cool  and  tranquil,  —  the  pastures  lie  so 
still  in  the  lap  of  the  haze,  —  the  sun's  heat  is 
so  gentle  and  genial,  —  the  atmosphere  bathes 
the  spirit  in  so  deliciously  indolent  a  current, — 
that  it  is  a  delight  just  to  be  out  doing  little 
but  breathing,  letting  the  eyes  wander  idly  this 
way  and  that,  and  silently  answering  with  the 
spirit  to  the  calls  that  may  be  heard  by  the  sen- 
sitive ear  all  over  God's  perfect  creation. 

An  Autumn  Day  has  neither  heat  nor 

haste  in  it.  It  is  a  perfect  thing.  Like  the 
Ethiop's  pearl,  it  seems  to  lie  dissolving  its 
little  riches  in  the  vast  beaker  whose  rim  is  the 
horizon.  Placidity  utters  itself  through  all  its 
quiet  expression.  Contemplation  —  that  slow 
and  sure  ripening  process  of  the  human  soul 
—  steeps  itself  in  its  delicious  atmosphere. 
We  instinctively  suffer  our  feet  to  lead  us  off 
among  the  trees,  and  develop  a  new  love  for 
being  alone.  Solitudes  are  delightful  now,  be- 
cause they  supply  their  own  companionship. 
Nature's  self  is  enough,  and  more  than  enough. 
We  would  ask  for  nothing,  for  life  now  is  deep 
and  full. 

Instead  of  the  ruddy  apple-blossoms  of  May 
down  in  the  orchard,  we  have  the  trees  heavy 
with  the  thick  globes  of  polished  fruit.  All 
the  bars  between  the  pastures  are  down,  and 


AUTUMN  DAYS.  115 

the  cattle  may  stray  where  they  will.  The 
brown  stubble  harbors  armies  of  sable  crickets, 
that  skip  away  in  rows  before  approaching 
feet.  The  hill-sides  begin  to  look  faded  and  a 
little  sere,  the  \vild-grape  vines  on  the  ledges 
turning  brown  and  yellow,  and  the  brakes  part- 
ing with  their  juicy  greenness.  That  beautiful 
American  heath  plant  —  the  whortleberry  bush 
—  now  shows  ruddy,  or  russet  red  ;  and  the 
sunshine  nestles  in  its  masses  with  a  look  of 
melancholy  that  is  like  a  speechless  lamenta- 
tion for  the  lost  delights  of  the  summer.  The 
choke-berries,  in  their  long  and  clustering  spikes, 
display  red,  or  black,  as  they  bend  down  their 
supporting  stems ;  and  flocks  of  tawny-breast- 
ed robins  gather  everywhere  about  the  sunny 
ledges  where  they  grow,  discussing  their  jour- 
ney southward  into  genial  winter  quarters. 

You  will  see,  on  nearing  the  skirts  of  the 
woodland,  busy  squirrels  racing  in  and  out  on 
the  riders  of  the  rail  fences,  their  cheeks  stuffed 
out  with  stolen  corn.  A  clumsy  woodchuck, 
fat  from  his  autumnal  foraging  on  the  farmers' 
pumpkins,  trundles  off  across  the  patch  of 
ploughed  land  over  the  wall,  afraid  lest  the 
dogs  have  spied  and  will  bring  him  to  stern 
account  before  he  can  quite  whisk  his  gray  tail 
into  his  domicil.  Who  would  seriouslv  care 


116  HOMESPUN. 

to  revel  in  the  sweet  abundance  with  which  he 
gorges  himself,  if  every  sound  is  charged  with 
fear,  and  his  heart  beats  with  sudden  sugges- 
tions of  apoplexy  ? 

At  home,  in  and  around  the  house,  these 
days  are  like  no  other.  All  about  the  yard  and 
garden,  it  is  almost  religiously  still.  A  voice 
makes  a  circle  in  the  air,  like  a  stone  dropped 
in  a  lake.  The  overgrown  chickens  wallow,  in 
lazy  luxury,  under  the  currant-bushes,  having 
discarded  scratching  altogether.  The  wasps 
swarm  around  the  chamber  and  attic  windows, 
stealing  in  with  every  chance,  and  colonizing 
in  such  warm  and  secret  nooks  as  handily  offer 
themselves.  The  garden  vegetables,  if  not  got 
in,  are  ripe  to  their  utmost  fulness ;  and  the 
wilted  vines  and  haulms  lie  decaying  over  the 
spots  where  but  yesterday  they  erected  col- 
umns and  spires  of  freshest  verdure.  It  is  a 
more  than  half  sad  feeling  that  rises  in  the  heart 
now,  as  one  opens  the  little  garden-gate  and 
strolls  down  the  central  walk  to  the  summer- 
house  ;  not  quite  of  sorrow,  nor  of  regret  that 
all  the  green  pomp  of  summer  is  gone ;  but  a 
tender  and  delicious  grief,  such  as  one  would 
not  avoid,  that  seems  to  flow  out  of  the  very 
sun  and  air  into  the  receptive  soul.  And  that 
is  just  the  secret;  we  are  in  closer  harmony 


AUTUMN  DAYS.  117 

with  earth  and  its  mysterious  influences,  at 
this  season,  and  disposed,  like  little  children,  to 
throw  ourselves  upon  her  charitable  love  and 
into  her  open  arms.  This  autumnal  magnet- 
ism works  purgatively  on  the  whole  year's  spir- 
itual humors,  expelling  what  is  incapable  of 
assimilation  with  our  natures,  and,  by  holding 
us  half  asleep  and  dreamy  in  the  adyta  of 
earth's  quietude,  bringing  us  into  more  inti- 
mate and  holy  relations  with  ourselves  than 
we  were  conscious  of  before.  In  this  regard, 
the  Autumn  days  are  indescribably  peculiar; 
the  soul  runs  over  with  happiness,  and  we 
know  it  for  a  truer  and  purer  happiness  because 
it  has  no  impetuosity,  no  superficial  heat  or 
hurry,  but  rather  an  undertone  of  sadness  that 
cannot  be  forced  to  the  surface  in  language. 

If  I  were  compelled  to  give  up  all  but  one 
particular  portion  of  the  year,  this  should  be 
the  one  I  would  cling  to  longest.  Because 
these  are,  of  all  the  others,  the  most  truly  di- 
vine days  in  the  calendar;  fuller  of  spiritual 
meaning  and  spiritual  delight.  These  invite 
contemplation  more  than  the  others ;  fill  all 
the  respiratory  organs  of  the  soul  with  the  oxy- 
gen of  their  calm  purity;  are  peopled  with 
more  visions  of  genuine  imaginative  beauty ; 
and  are  more  clear  of  those  films  and  cloudy 


118  HOMESPUN. 

screens  that  at  other  times  overcast  the  spirit's 
canopy.  They  take  us  to  heights  in  the  land- 
scape of  life  where  we  get  larger  views  than 
before.  They  sober  our  impulses,  calm  our 
restlessness,  hold  us  with  a  gentle  firmness  to 
our  own  proper  plane,  establish  the  centripetal 
force  within  us,  and  develop  a  personal  insight 
that  stands  forth  first  in  the  order  of  the  soul's 
faculties.  If  they  have  not  a  brook-like  tor- 
rent of  joy  dashing  and  foaming  through  them, 
like  some  few  other  days  of  the  year,  they  are, 
nevertheless,  seamed  and  grooved  deeply  with 
those  streams  that  run  by  silently,  and  with 
accumulated  power. 

Nature  calls  to  us,  every  one,  — "  Come 
out !  come  out !  and  let  us  know  one  another 
better ! "  One  feels  the  expression  and  the 
emphasis  of  the  call,  when  one  goes  thought- 
fully skirting  the  rustling  cornfields,  thick  with 
the  yellow  ears,  or  passes  devoutly  within  the 
illuminated  temple  of  the  woods,  glorified 
with  the  combined  colors  of  the  year.  Even 
the  semicircular  army  of  turkeys,  ranging  the 
pastures  for  the  skipping  fatlings  of  the  grass, 
seem  as  much  a  part  of  the  scene,  and  their 
low,  melancholy  cry  is  as  much  a  real  voice 
of  the  time,  as  the  skies  and  the  woods  and 
the  hazy  smoke  themselves.  The  cows  that 


AUTUMN  DAYS.  119 

graze  along  the  hill-sides  are  of  contemplative 
mien,  and  look  mildly  up  at  you,  thus  disturb- 
ing their  solitudes,  as  if  they  would  fain  in- 
quire whether  you  be  of  their  way  or  no. 
And  all  among  the  shy  little  coverts,  where 
was  the  dark  secrecy  of  green  leaves  through 
early  summer,  is  now  reflected  the  bright  light 
of  hanging  cloths  of  russet  and  crimson  and 
gold.  The  wild  creeper  on  the  stone  wall  has 
been  dipped  in  the  dyes  of  the  transmuting  at- 
mosphere, and  come  out  a  frill  of  brilliancy  that 
makes  the  old  wall  regal  in  the  memory  after- 
ward. 

How  gayly  chatters  that  rascally  red  squirrel 
overhead,  about  affairs  at  home,  including  his 
prospects  for  the  winter!  As  who  should  say 
to  the  crafty  woodsman,  skulking  with  gun  and 
dog  to  surprise  him,  —  "  Sir,  be  content,  if  you 
please,  to  live  and  let  live !  You  would  be  in 
better  business  if  you  would  go  in  quest  of 
bigger  game !  "  The  pond  is  mottled  with  the 
painted  autumn  leaves,  which  it  slowly  drags 
down,  at  last,  to  "  muddy  death,"  paving  its 
broad  floor  with  the  same  gay  mosaic  it  has  so 
recently  reflected  in  its  surface.  A  covey  of 
plump  quails  start  up  from  under  the  rail 
fence,  making  a  whistling  thunder  with  their 
wings  that  almost  stops  the  beating  of  your 


120  HOMESPUN. 

heart.  No  song-birds  are  caroling  their  hymns 
now,  but  even  they  appear  to  have  drawn  into 
their  little  breasts  the  peculiar  thoughtfulness 
of  the  air.  They  flit  by,  from  spot  to  spot; 
but  it  is  in  silence,  for  they  are  packing  up  for 
lower  latitudes. 

All  sounds  and  voices  now  are  freighted 
with  another  meaning.  The  cawing  of  sable 
flocks  of  crows  in  the  woods,  —  the  bleat  of 
sheep  in  the  far  pastures,  —  the  shout  of  boys 
to  the  toiling  oxen  in  the  cornfield,  —  the 
lowing  of  cattle  across  the  distant  hills,  —  the 
sharp,  quick  bark  of  the  watch-dog,  or  the 
eager  hunter,  in  the  wood  patch, — the  noisy 
cackling  of  hens  about  the  barn,  —  reach  the 
ear  on  so  subdued  and  sweet  a  key,  that  one 
cannot  but  wish  he  might  feel  the  waves  of  so 
soft  a  medium  beating  about  him  through  all 
the  year,  preserving  the  poetic  qualities  of 
sound  as  perfectly  as  flies  are  preserved  in  am- 
ber. The  laughter  of  the  children,  nutting  in 
the  grove  of  hickories  and  chestnuts,  is  like  no 
other  laughter  heard ;  no  atmosphere  but  this 
could  so  fix  its  delicious  qualities  in  the  ear 
and  heart. 

And  when  the  sunset  hour  approaches,  and 
the  great  god  of  light  prepares  to  gather  about 
him  the  yellow  folds  of  haze  and  mist,  and  the 


AUTUMN  DAYS.  121 

whole  air  holds  such  a  "  solemn  stillness  "  that 
one  can  almost  talk  with  his  thoughts  aloud, 
the  lonely  katydid  shrilling  her  hoarse  cry  up 
in  the  chambers  of  the  elms  and  sycamores, 
and  the  crickets  chiming  in  with  their  melan- 
choly refrain  in  the  matted  grass  and  faded 
stubble,  —  then  the  hush  is  so  complete  that 
the  heart  acknowledges  the  spell  laid  upon  it ; 
the  soul  involuntarily  assumes  the  attitude  of 
prayer  ;  and  the  experience  that  is  born  of  the 
hour,  silent  and  profound  as  it  is,  makes  a 
close  to  the  day  as  fitting  as  it  is  spiritually 
memorable.  No  man  may  yield  himself  to 
these  influences,  and  say,  in  his  heart,  he  is  not 
both  more  and  better  than  he  was  before.  He 
secretly  confesses  —  if  he  is  wont  to  watch  the 
silent  processes  of  his  own  growth  —  that, 
with  the  days,  he  ripens,  too  ;  and  that,  along 
with  the  season,  he  may  become  more  and 
more  glorious  to  the  end.  This  is  no  more, 
then,  the  year's  autumnal  time  than  it  is  our 
own ;  in  its  broad  lap  all  the  sheaves  and 
hopes  are  heaped  and  pressed  down. 

Ah,   how   we   are    carried   back  —  far 

back,  sitting  and  thinking  of  the  yellow  suns 
lying  up  against  the  side  of  the  brown  barn,  — 
of  the  pumpkins  piled  on  the  rough  oaken 
floor,  —  of  the  flock  of  turkeys  crowding  in  the 


122  HOMESPUN. 

yard  at  sunset,  —  and  of  the  little  ones  just 
come  home  from  the  woods,  scratched,  and 
worn,  and  weary,  and  good  for  nothing  more 
except  bread-and-milk  for  supper  and  a  soft 
bed  under  the  roof !  Who  does  not  like  to  sit 
down  and  live  the  past  over  again  ?  Who 
feels  so  sure  of  having  got  all  there  is  to  be 
had  from  these  days  and  nights,  —  these  morn- 
ings, and  afternoons,  and  moonlit  evenings,  — 
that  he  does  not  care  to  go  back  once  more, 
and  glean  for  a  little  while  after  his  earlier  and 
briefer  experiences  ? 


THANKSGIVING. 

SNOW  used  to  fall,  in  years  gone  by,  a  day 
or  two  before  Thanksgiving.  There  was 
always  a  great  deal  of  bustle  in  the  city  mar- 
kets, as  also  in  the  village  stores  and  out 
among  the  farms.  It  is  at  Home,  however, 
where  the  genuine  interest  culminates,  rather 
than  about  the  city  stalls  or  within  the  coun- 
try stores. 

On  the  very  day  before  this  fine  old  festival, 
they  are  up  betimes  at  the  Homestead,  fod- 
dering the  cattle  and  feeding  the  poultry,  while 
the  various  chores,  nameless  for  number,  are 
looked  after  as  they  should  be.  Every  indi- 
vidual feels  an  individual  responsibility.  Word 
has  come,  in  good  season,  of  the  proposed  re- 
turn to  the  old  hearth  of  the  entire  list  of 
brothers  and  sisters,  sons  and  daughters,  to- 
gether with  the  retinue  of  wives,  husbands,  and 
children.  The  District  School  has  not  "  kept  " 
since  the  week  began,  that  the  field  might  be 
quite  clear  of  impediments  to  family  enjoy- 


124  HOMESPUN. 

ment.  The  master  has  gone  home,  as  well  as 
others.  The  village  stores  are  filled  with  fresh 
barrels  of  flour,  and  boxes  of  new  spices,  and 
piles  of  turkeys,  geese,  and  chickens,  in  every 
vacant  spot  where  they  may  lie.  Here  and 
there,  against  the  dingy  walls,  hangs  a  brace 
of  partridges,  trapped  by  some  skulking  fellow 
who  passes  more  than  half  his  time  roving  in 
the  woods  ;  or  a  solitary  gray  rabbit,  brought 
in  as  a  strictly  personal  speculation. 

Soon  enough  after  breakfast,  work  begins 
in  earnest.  There  are  children  in  plenty  all 
about  the  poultry-yards  to  witness  and  assist 
at  the  general  slaughter.  Turkeys  are  singled 
out  for  the  block,  and  die  "  without  a  sign." 
Chickens  follow  in  fateful  order  close  after. 
There  is  an  indiscriminate  spirting  of  fresh 
blood  all  around  the  chop-log,  a  great  flutter 
of  feathers  and  headless  hornpipes  over  the 
scattered  chips,  and  the  annual  door-yard 
butchery  is  over.  While,  within  the  house, 
Industry  has  suddenly  raised  itself  to  the  place 
of  a  tyrant.  Everybody  is  busy,  —  is  at  work. 
The  carcasses  of  fowls  are  getting  plucked  in 
a  darkened  back-room.  Only  the  aged  people 
sit  idly  complacent  at  the  fireside,  chatting  of 
their  fears  about  the  weather  and  the  coming 
home  again  of  the  children,  during  the  day. 


THANKSGIVING.  125 

The  kitchen  is  a  sort  of  household  mart,  in 
which  things  great  and  small  are  each  in  its 
turn  attended  to.  Hurry  and  bustle,  though 
without  actual  confusion.  Long  tables  and 
square  tables,  and  small  stands  in  the  corners. 
Flour  and  dough,  and  plates  and  pans.  So 
many  sleeves  rolled  up,  so  many  white  arms 
made  whiter  with  flour  dust.  Such  pleasant 
South  Sea  smells  of  spices,  and  such  clouds 
of  irresistible  steams  and  odors.  So  many  big 
and  little  wooden  trays,  and  round  plates,  — 
white,  with  blue  edges.  And  spoons,  and 
knives,  and  rolling-pins,  and  flour-dredgers. 
Delf  trays,  likewise,  filled  nearly  full  with 
mince-meat  for  the  pies,  long  seasoned  and 
moistened,  with  a  wooden  spoon  sticking  up. 
And  large  pans  of  stewed  pumpkin,  strained 
through  sieves,  and  colored  richly  with  milk 
that  blankets  itself,  every  night,  with  cream. 
And  dishes  of  cranberry,  all  prepared  for  its 
deft  transmutation  into  tarts.  And  pans  of 
apple-sauce,  too,  ready  at  hand  for  the  pastry 
covers  that  are  in  process  of  making. 

By  noon,  or  certainly  within  three  hours 
after,  the  uncles  and  aunts  begin  to  flock  in,  as 
doves  come  back  to  the  olden  windows.  Sons 
and  daughters  along  with  them,  too,  running 
over  with  joy  to  get  back  to  the  home  of 


126  HOMESPUN. 

Grandpa  and  Grandma.  The  old  halls  and 
passages  ring  with  glad  exclamations.  Youth- 
ful voices  and  older  ones  intermingle,  like  gold 
and  silver  threads  twisted  together.  A  farmer 
son  ;  a  merchant  son  ;  a  daughter,  with  a  pro- 
fessional husband;  a  bachelor  son, the  odd  one 
of  the  family  lot :  —  all  return  gladly,  and  feel 
it  a  religious  duty  to  come  back  to  this  time- 
hallowed  festival,  and  receive  once  again  the  old 
folks'  blessing.  A  sort  of  "  picked-up  "  dinner 
is  set  before  them,  which,  perforce,  must 
answer  till  the  cheerful  meal  at  evening. 

Than  this  no  pleasanter  picture  of  the  old 
style  of  domestic  happiness  is  to  be  painted  on 
any  imagination.  One  son  strolls  about  the 
premises,  inspecting  with  great  interest  the 
yards,  the  barns,  the  sheds,  and  the  stock. 
Another  sits  at  the  warm  fireside  with  the 
aged  people,  talking  of  the  home  affairs  in-doors 
and  out,  —  of  wool,  and  grass,  and  poultry,  and 
such  other  topics  as  properly  appertain.  And 
in  this  pleasantly  placid  way  the  chilly  after- 
noon wears  slowly  by,  the  stream  of  talk 
swelling  or  shrinking  with  the  change  of  moods 
and  tenses  there  at  the  hearth.  The  pies  and 
tarts  and  other  like  temptations  that  get  baked 
in  the  huge  kitchen  oven  before  the  night 
comes  down  to  cover  the  chimneys,  it  would 
be  idle  to  think  of  numbering. 


THANKSGIVING.  127 

Soon  after  ten  o'clock,  the  next  morning,  as 
the  tall  clock  in  the  corner  makes  musical  proc- 
lamation, the  several  branches  of  the  family 
tree  are  collected  together  in  the  living-room, 
prepared  for  meeting.  They  come  from  the 
chambers,  from  the  kitchens,  —  where  they  have 
been  indulging  in  a  protracted  strain  of  morn- 
ing gossip,  —  from  the  stables,  and  the  yards, 
and  the  barn.  All  are  resolved  to  be  talking  at 
the  same  moment ;  now  directly  at  one  an- 
other, and  now  crosswise.  An  uncle  fetches  in 
an  armful  of  hickory  and'maple,  that  there  may 
be  a  rousing  fire  on  the  hearth  when  they  re- 
turn to  dinner.  Grandfather's  hair  shines  like 
silver,  brushed  down  so  smoothly  before  and 
behind ;  and  his  white  cravat  and  modest  shirt- 
frill  impart  to  him  an  extremely  venerable 
appearance,  which  does  not  fail  to  challenge 
Grandmother's  admiration,  as  she  familiarly 
chats  with  children  and  grandchildren  in  her 
wonted  corner. 

There  is  a  constant  going  to  the  glass  at  the 
further  end  of  the  room,  and  there  is  no  end  to 
the  borrowing  of  pins,  or  to  inquiries,  one  of 
the  other,  of  how  she  "  looked."  A  great  deal 
of  wondering,  too,  if  there  would  be  much  of 
a  turn-out  at  meeting.  And  much  smoothing 
down  of  hair  before,  and  brushing  of  coats  and 


128  HOMESPUN. 

cloaks  and  capes.  Till,  presently,  rattles  around 
to  the  front  door  the  grand  family  wagon,  — 
a  cross  between  a  hay-cart  and  a  chariotee,  — 
followed  by  other  smaller  vehicles  delegated  to 
take  up  the  family  margin.  Now  the  young 
people  are  in  highest  glee.  They  cannot  find 
it  in  them  to  stand  still,  with  such  energy 
works  the  delight  in  their  very  feet  and  toes. 

Along  the  roads,  the  trees  are  bared  of 
leaves,  save  the  storm-defying  white  oaks ; 
while  the  fields  stretch  away  on  either  side, 
bleak,  snow-blotched,  and  desolate.  A  few 
wagons  stand  under  the  sheds  about  the  meet- 
ing-house, whose  owners  are  waiting  and  shiv- 
ering just  within  the  door.  The  Thanksgiving 
sermon  is  like  itself  alone ;  starting  from  an 
Old  Testament  text,  of  manifold  divisions,  full 
of  a  grateful  spirit  that  takes  at  least  half  the 
year's  credit  to  itself,  and  stuck  all  over  with 
fervid  allusions  to  the  muscular  souls  that 
figure  up  and  down  the  pages  of  Jewish  script- 
ure. It  is  a  performance  of  length  withal; 
but  people  endure  that  now  far  better  than 
they  do  on  the  annual  Fast  Day.  It  smacks, 
too,  of  a  home-flavor,  and  revives  the  dear  old 
family  memories,  and  is  warmed  with  the  wine 
of  those  associations  which  cluster  about  the 
domestic  hearthstone.  Just  as  much  a  part  of 


THANKSGIVING.  129 

the  time  as  the  annual  dinner  itself.  Prelim- 
inary only  to  the  "  fat  and  sweet  "  that  make 
festive  indeed  the  family  board.  Linking  to- 
gether parents  and  children  in  still  closer  and 
more  enduring  bonds,  —  a  kind  of  religious 
hyphen,  that  will  let  neither  go. 

After  church  comes  Dinner.  To  this  part  of 
the  celebration  better  justice  can  be  done  with 
the  knife  and  fork  than  with  the  pen-point 
For  a  while  all  stand  or  sit  grouped  around  the 
open  fire  that  is  blazing  in  the  dining-room, 
hungry  and  waiting.  The  talk  is  brief  and 
brisk,  touching  no  topic  that  promises  to  re- 
quire much  development.  The  long  table  is 
spread  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  extending  al- 
most from  wall  to  wall.  The  younger  girls, 
domestic  by  instinct,  love  to  assist  in  bringing 
in  the  various  dishes,  making  earnest  fun  of  it 
on  the  way.  One  and  another  of  the  mothers 
present  offer  to  help,  but  they  are  all  begged  to 
be  patient  for  but  a  very  little  while  longer,  — 
only  a  little  while. 

In  and  out  the  door  leading  to  the  kitchen 
they  troop,  loading  the  tables  and  lightening 
themselves.  The  eyes  around  the  hearth 
watch  every  movement  eagerly.  The  tables 
are  rapidly  taking  on  an  ornamental  appear- 
ance. The  boys  nudge  the  girls,  as  some 


130  HOMESPUN. 

favorite  dish  is  brought  in  and  placed  in  full 
view,  and  their  papillary  glands  are  all  awake 
for  gratification.  "  Father"  takes  post  at  one 
end  of  the  board,  and  deliberately  runs  his  eyes 
up  and  down  the  same,  to  see  if  a  single  one 
out  of  so  generous  a  flock  may  have  been  left 
out  of  the  commissary's  calculation.  And 
finally,  "  Mother  "  walks  in  through  the  door 
from  the  kitchen,  leisurely  adjusting  the  cuffs 
of  her  sleeves,  and  then  nods  to  Father  that 
all  is  ready.  He  elevates  his  chin,  as  a  sign  of 
inquiry,  to  which  she  responds  with  a  second 
nod.  "  Well,"  says  he,  "  I  believe  dinner  'a 
ready.  Won't  you  all  please  to  be  seated  ?  " 

How  the  intricate  problem  of  seating  them 
is  solved,  is  a  standing  family  mystery.  Yet 
there  they  all  are  at  last,  snug  and  compact  as 
herrings  in  a  box,  and  with  appetites  beggaring 
description.  The  old  folks  are  tenderly  cared 
for,  however,  and  occupy  posts  of  honor. 
Parents  and  children,  old  and  young,  are 
sandwiched  in  about  the  board,  imparting  ad- 
ditional variety  to  the  happy  scene.  The  snow- 
white  cloth,  —  the  browned  turkeys  lying  in 
state  on  huge  platters  in  the  middle  of  the 
table,  —  the  flanking  dishes  of  chickens,  oys- 
ters, potatoes,  squash,  onions,  celery,  and  other 
good  things,  —  the  handsome  and  well-kept 


THANKSGIVING.  131 

old  family  service,  tell  the  story  of  content  and 
good  cheer  better  than  it  can  be  set  down  upon 
paper.  How  delighted  are  the  children  with 
only  the  sight  of  the  feast,  exchanging  smiles 
and  telegraphing  sly  signals  all  around  the 
table !  How  interestedly  they  watch  the  carv- 
ing and  disjointing  of  the  fowls,  as  the  white 
breast-meat  falls  away  in  such  enticing  slices 
from  the  sharp  blade,  and  the  anatomy  of  the 
subject  becomes  more  and  more  palpable! 
And  the  preserves  that  have  been  brought  forth 
from  their  dark  hiding-places,  —  plum  and  pear 
and  currant,  —  the  jelly  and  sauce,  too,  how 
these  tickle  their  youthful  tastes  even  before 
contact,  raising  a  livelier  relish  in  their  im- 
aginations ! 

Hard  by,  on  a  sideboard  conveniently 
placed,  that  is  a  perfect  miracle  and  puzzle  of 
drawers  and  doors  and  out-of-the-way  apart- 
ments, are  arrayed  the  bountiful  rations  of 
pastry  and  dessert.  A  large  pudding  and  a 
smaller  one,  of  custard  and  plum ;  together 
with  manifold  samples  of  the  pies  baked  on 
the  day  previous,  —  mince,  apple,  squash, 
pumpkin,  custard,  and  cranberry,  and  a  very 
broad  platter  of  tarts  to  match.  The  effect  of 
all  this  side  display  is  nowise  lost  upon  the 
younger  ones  in  the  family  party,  nor  indeed 


132  HOMESPUN. 

do  the  good  housewives  intend  it  shall  pass 
unobserved  of  the  elder  participants  of  the 
festival.  And  there  is  tea  as  well,  sending  up 
its  savory  steams  from  the  little  side-stand,  and 
waiting  to  be  poured  into  the  quaint  little  cups 
that  are  a  genuine  part  of  the  homestead  fur- 
nishing. 

And  thus  this  high  feast  of  New  Eng- 
land goes  on.  Knives  and  forks  make  a  brisk 
clatter,  and  voices  mingle  and  ring  all  over  the 
room.  All  faces  are  lighted  with  the  joy  which 
all  hearts  sincerely  feel.  It  is  busy  work,  for  a 
time,  what  with  the  eating  and  talking  to- 
gether ;  and  the  poultry  carcasses  show  signs 
of  giving  out;  while  the  puddings  and  pies 
melt  away  in  turn ;  and,  at  last,  the  table  ex- 
hibits but  the  wreck  of  the  fat  feast  under 
which  it  so  recently  groaned.  The  children 
testify  to  their  sense  of  surfeit  by  pushing 
back  in  their  chairs  and  drawing  difficult 
breaths.  The  older  ones  play  with  their  knives 
or  their  tumblers,  and  essay  short  stories  that 
require  no  great  concentration  of  the  faculties 
they  have  nearly  put  to  sleep.  Or  the  thrifty 
wives  compare  domestic  receipts  for  this  article 
and  that,  talking  pints  and  pounds,  sugar  and 
juice,  water  and  jars,  till  the  snarl  of  household 
learning  is  hardly  to  be  disentangled. 


THANKSGIVING.  133 

The  evening  brings  its  own  pleasures  again. 
Then  the  old-fashioned  family  games  begin,  — 
blind-man's-buff,  puss-puss  in  the  corner,  snap- 
up  around  the  chimney,  forfeits,  and  their  many 
ludistic  congeners.  The  rooms  all  over  the  old 
house  are  lighted,  and  the  echoes  flock  merrily 
up  stairs  and  down.  Grandfather  has  a 
smoky  story  in  his  corner  for  such  as  choose  to 
gather  round  and  listen  ;  while  Grandmother 
sits  the  centre  of  admiration  for  all  the  daugh- 
ters and  daughters-in-law  assembled.  And 
they  keep  it  up  till  late  bed-time.  It  is  glee 
without  limit  or  qualification.  The  hour  is 
one  with  two  figures,  when  the  embers  are 
buried  on  the  hearth,  and  the  lights  are  extin- 
guished before  the  windows,  and  the  crescent 
moon  stoops  low  and  virginal  toward  the  west- 
ern horizon. 

But  what  a  flood  of  happiness  has  swelled 
in  every  heart  under  the  roof!  Not  a  single 
head  is  laid  upon  its  pillow,  but  is  filled  with 
dear  thoughts  of  the  endless  and  inexhaustible 
delights  of  Home.  Not  a  heart  but  beats  more 
strongly  with  genuine  love  for  those  simple  and 
homely  pleasures  which  mere  wealth  can  nei- 
ther give  nor  take  away. 


HARD  WINTERS. 

OLD  people  love  to  recount  the  trials  they 
have  passed  through,  eager  to  make  it  ap- 
pear that  the  burden  of  this  world's  woes  are 
fallen  entirely  upon  themselves.  The  "  last 
war  "  was  a  great  deal  harder  to  put  up  with 
than  any  boy's  affair  of  these  times ;  the  fa- 
mous "  September  Gale  "  has  never  been  ap- 
proached, for  blowing  capacity,  by  any  tempest 
of  more  modern  days  ;  there  never  was,  and 
never  will  be,  such  a  depression  of  the  public 
spirits  as  during  the  year  of  the  "  embargo ; " 
and  old-fashioned  Winters  have  not  been  par- 
alleled by  the  dismallest  spells  of  cold  weather 
that  have  latterly  frozen  men  stiff  and  stark,  at 
high  noon,  by  the  road  side. 

As  far  as  downright  hard  winters  go,  it  is 
more  than  likely  they  are  in  the  right.  Such 
snow-piles  as  they  used  to  wallow  and  dig 
through,  or  ride  upon  when  once  safely  en- 
crusted, we  do  not  chance  to  stumble  into 
in  these  days,  sure  enough.  Then  they  had 


HARD    WINTERS.  135 

sleighing  four  months  on  a  stretch;  whereas, 
if  we  can  get  even  four  weeks  of  it,  the  season 
through,  we  brag  as  lustily  as  if  we  had  been 
exposed  to  trials  as  tough  as  any  that  encom- 
passed the  oldest  inhabitants.  Our  mercury 
does  sink  pretty  low,  there's  no  denying  it; 
but  these  "  dreadful  cold  snaps  "  are  never  ex- 
pected to  endure  for  more  than  three  days, 
when  all  the  weather  prophets  assure  us  the 
cold  has  "  got  to  its  height,"  can  go  not  one 
half  degree  further  if  it  would,  and  must  of 
necessity  make  way  forthwith  for  a  relaxing 
southerly  rain. 

We  walk  in  "  slosh "  and  mud,  where  our 
fathers  went  in  whitest  snow  up  to  their  knees. 
Frozen  ice  crunches  under  our  tread,  where  the 
old  settlers  used  to  make  the  trodden  snow- 
pavement  squeal  and  squeak  beneath  their 
sturdy  cowhide  soles.  Round-robin  snow  is 
enough  to  delight  the  children  of  this  day ; 
whereas  their  grandparents,  at  their  age,  would 
be  out  on  the  bleak  country  roads,  helping  the 
men  "break  out"  with  ox  teams  of  a  dozen 
and  twenty  to  a  string.  In  short,  this  is  the 
millennial  day  of  furnaces  and  double  windows, 
of  salted  sidewalks  and  soft  fur  collars.  In 
other  times,  they  got  warm  out  of  doors,  made 
friends  with  old  Winter  by  defying  him  to  do 


136  HOMESPUN. 

his  biggest,  and  secured  cheeks  as  ruddy  as 
cranberries  in  October,  that  lasted  them  long 
after  their  hair  turned  silver. 

To  get  at  the  good  old  wintry  times  once 
more,  we  must  either  go  back  into  the  years, 
or  into  the  country.  In  these  days,  the  latter 
is  quite  as  convenient,  if  not  a  trifle  more  so. 
Away  back  at  the  homestead,  they  are  all 
snugly  snowed  in  during  several  months.  They 
may  get  out,  to  be  sure,  at  intervals  far  apart, 
when  the  travelling  has  become  fair  and  the 
sunny  days  entice  them,  —  as  at  Christmas, 
and  New  Year's,  and,  possibly,  two  or  three 
times  more  before  the  Spring  breaking-up; 
but,  as  a  standing  rule  of  faith,  they  are  wont 
to  consider  themselves  fixed,  firm  and  fast,  at 
the  old  domicil,  from  about  Thanksgiving  time 
till  the  freshets  of  the  new  season  announce 
the  coming  of  the  frost  from  the  ground.  And 
the  life  at  home  there  is  thus  made  rich  and 
deep,  because  it  is  not  fragmentary,  irregular, 
and  without  defined  purpose.  No  family  could 
be  hived  so  warmly  and  comfortably  in  the 
snows  of  our  northern  latitudes  for  five  long 
months,  without  finding  out  more  of  themselves 
and  one  another  than  they  knew  the  autumn 
before. 

What  grown  man  of  country  nativity  but 


HARD    WINTERS.  137 

recalls  the  elegant  sport  he  had,  coasting  down 
the  long,  winding  New  England  hills  with  the 
girls,  on  the  white  moonlit  evenings  ?  —  and 
does  not  wish,  with  a  swift  bound  of  his  heart, 
that  he  could  now  find  any  side  of  the  world 
as  smooth  a  sliding-place  as  he  found  one  side 
then,  with  Julia  and  Jane  and  Margaret  on  the 
sled  in  front  of  him  ?  Then,  +he  sparkle  of 
the  snow  in  the  moonshine  was  not  one  half 
as  full  of  gladness  as  the  sparkle  that  danced 
in  the  eyes  of  the  girls  ;  nor  were  the  reddest 
and  richest  tints  that  lay  along  the  western 
horizon,  in  those  wintry  sunsets,  a  tithe  as  red 
and  ruddy  as  those  that  made  their  young  lips 
so  ripe  and  fine.  Then,  the  ring  of  the  skater's 
steel  up  along  the  frozen  creeks  and  coves  made 
clearer  music  for  the  heart  than  any  ring  of 
voices  or  dollars  since.  And  the  sleigh-bell 
chime,  sounding  so  deep  and  clear  from  that 
old  strap  that  hung  low  beneath  the  white 
mare's  belly,  is  incomparable,  for  sweetness 
and  melody,  with  any  of  the  vocal  gymnastics 
or  professional  bell-ringing  and  tympanology 
of  these  modern  days. 

At  school,  the  winter  fun  was  not  to  be 
matched  with  any  quality  of  sport  had  since. 
The  dry,  baking  heat  of  the  iron  box-stove 
made  the  labor  of  erecting  and  defending  snow- 


138  HOMESPUN. 

forts  at  noon-time  a  necessity  as  well  as  a  de- 
light; and  the  red  hands,  numbed  with  work- 
ing in  the  frozen  meal,  burned  like  coals  of  fire 
as  soon  as  the  afternoon  tasks  within  doors  be- 
gan again.  And  oh!  the  kicking  and  rubbing 
and  plunging,  from  the  chilblains!  Torment 
was  never  devised  for  young  rebels  like  this ! 
Prisoners  in  Calcutta  Holes,  the  world  over, 
could  experience  no  direr  distress  than  did  we 
children  at  school,  from  about  half-past  two 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon  until  the  hour  arrived 
for  us  to  be  spelled  round  out  of  the  little 
Walker  dictionary.  Many  has  been  the  win- 
ter's day,  when  I  would  joyfully  have  given  all 
I  possessed,  or  ever  hoped  to  possess,  for  the 
freedom  of  the  outside  of  the  building,  that, 
once  there,  I  might  take  off  shoes  and  stock- 
ings, and  run  wild  like  a  colt  in  the  snow! 
People  talk  of  suspense  as  the  acutest  agony ; 
it  must  be  such  have  never  had  pesky  chilblains 
in  their  childhood. 

It  is  a  long  and  difficult  way  home  for  the 
younger  children,  and  so  the  older  ones  take 
hold  together  and  draw  little  Sis  on  the  sled, 
who  hangs  on  as  for  dear  life,  sticking  forward 
two  red  stockings  as  straight  as  a  couple  of 
candlesticks.  But  the  raw  journey  has  a  deli- 
cious ending  in  the  joy  with  which  grandpa- 


HARD    WINTERS.  139 

rents  welcome  us  in  the  great  living  room,  and 
the  kindness  with  which  Mother  urges  us  tow- 
ard the  fire,  promising  bread-and-butter  in  gen- 
erous slices,  the  moment  we  are  warm.  And 
thenceforward  till  the  thick  darkness  comes,  it 
is  the  lad's  work  to  go  about  home  choring ; 
getting  in  the  wood  for  the  night  and  the  kind- 
lings for  the  morning,  tending  the  sheep  in 
their  sheds  or  the  cows  in  their  stalls,  throwing 
down  bedding  and  fodder,  and  taking  an  affec- 
tionate look  by  the  way  in  upon  the  hens  that 
have  gone  off  early  to  roost.  Sometimes  he 
rebels  in  his  little  heart  against  the  restraint 
this  work  imposes,  especially  if  there  happen 
to  be  a  half-dozen  other  boys  whom  he  would 
like  to  follow  a  half-mile  further  on  the  road, 
firing  snow-balls  as  they  go ;  but,  generally,  he 
performs  his  tasks  well  and  truly,  looking  for- 
ward to  the  arrival  of  supper-time  and  the 
fairy  evening  scenes  in  the  bright  firelight  af- 
terward. 

Yes,  and  it  is  the  evening  that  remains  crown 
and  flower  of  all.  The  entertainments  to  be 
got  by  a  child's  imagination  out  of  the  pages 
of  the  "  Arabian  Nights,"  pale  in  their  brilliancy 
before  the  delights  that  are  extracted  from  these 
quiet  and  homely  evening  scenes,  as  they  look 
to  the  boy  who  has  progressed  through  weary 


140  HOMESPUN. 

experiences  to  riper  manhood.  The  more  rig- 
orous the  day's  climate  has  been,  the  warmer 
and  cosier  the  hearth  at  evening ;  the  louder 
the  wintry  winds  shriek  at  the  windows  and 
about  the  chimney-tops,  the  more  bland  and 
tropical  seem  the  influences  of  the  fire-heat  at 
the  hearthstone.  The  story  is  told  ;  the  lesson 
is  conned  for  the  morrow  ;  or  a  neighbor  drops 
in,  and  feels  at  once  thoroughly  welcome ;  or 
the  old  folks  fall  a-gossiping  of  the  ancient 
days  when  people  rode  about  in  pillions,  and 
make  the  younger  ones  fairly  gape  with  strained 
attention.  The  golden  words  of  Plato  are  not 
more  golden  to  his  handful  of  students  and 
disciples,  than  are  the  hours  of  these  winter 
evenings  to  all  of  us  who  have  such  on  the  roll 
to  remember. 

There  were  times,  all  along  through  these 
tough  old  winters,  when  the  eaves  would  not 
drip  for  two  and  three  weeks  on  the  stretch, 
and  on  the  south  side  of  the  house  at  that ; 
when  the  horse-trough  was  tight  frozen,  and 
the  farmers'  beasts  refused  to  turn  up  to  it  on 
their  way  along  the  road,  comprehending  the 
needlessness  of  the  labor  afar  off;  when  the  very 
poultry,  for  days  together,  were  not  to  be  seen 
huddled  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  woodshed, 
preferring  to  stay  close  where  the  warm  scents 


HARD    WINTERS.  141 

of  the  bam  were  a  surer  guarantee  of  comfort. 
Then  the  ice  cracked  with  a  sort  of  moan, 
pitched  on  a  very  low  key,  across  all  the  ponds 
and  coves  and  rivers.  And  the  snow  stuck  like 
paint,  or  moss,  to  the  sides  of  the  forest  trees 
against  which  it  was  plastered  by  the  driving 
of  the  last  storm.  'And  the  air  was  so  still  and 
cold,  that  the  eyes  turned  to  tears  the  moment 
they  opened  in  its  clear  Arctic  lake.  And  it 
were  as  easy  to  walk  on  pavements  of  brick 
and  granite,  as  to  set  foot  down  upon  the  hard 
body  of  frozen  snow  that  furnished  the*bnly 
floor  for  the  world.  And  eggs  split  almost  as 
soon  as  they  were  laid, —  and  cows  refused  to 
go  out  into  the  yard  at  all,  — and  the  day  was 
as  still  as  the  night,  —  and  creation  seemed  to 
be  waiting  for  a  change  in  the  weather  before 
making  another  active  movement.  In  these 
drear  and  silent  nights  of  our  northern  winter, 
how  thick  stand  the  armies  of  the  stars  above, 
writing  all  over  God's  skyey  dome  in  hiero- 
glyphics that  read  with  an  eternal  meaning ! 
There  is  one  class  of  men,  especially,  that 
appears  to  appropriate  all  the  out-door  poetry 
of  this  rigorous  and  stern  season  ;  and  they  are 
the  Wood-choppers.  Sturdy  Norse-folk  indeed 
are  they,  emblazoned  with  frosty  locks  and 
beards,  and  toying  like'children  with  the  winds 


3  42  HOMESPUN. 

that  rush  forth  howling  upon  them  from  their 
lairs  in  the  forest.  Many  a  day  have  I  envied 
the  wintry  lot  of  the  wood-chopper.  There 
seemed  to  be  a  nameless  mystery  in  his  occu- 
pation, that  clothed  him  all  over,  in  my  eyes, 
with  a  garment  of  romance.  He  wandered  off 
by  faintly  outlined  cattle-paths,  in  the  morn- 
ing, into  the  woodland  field  of  his  labor,  —  axe 
under  his  arm,  and  dinner  in  the  deep  pocket 
of  his  green-baize  jacket,  —  and  was  not  heard 
from  again  until  the  coming  of  the  red  sunset. 
His  long  day,  so  uninterrupted  and  calm,  so 
packed  with  thought,  whole  and  entire  in  the 
solitude,  and  fragrant  with  the  balm  yielded  by 
the  cleft  hearts  of  noble  trees,  was  to  my  imag- 
ination like  no  other  man's  day,  going  through 
the  whole  line  of  the  alphabet  of  names  or  pro- 
fessions. 

He  dealt  out  blows  with  his  axe  that  rang 
like  the  strokes  of  fate  along  the  aisles  of  the 
forest.  The  moan  of  the  falling  tree  on  the 
woodland  slope  was  echoed  in  a  low  and  dol- 
orous key  across  the  pond,  and  far  into  the 
dreary  reaches  on  the  other  side.  I  have  come 
upon  him  as  he  sat  at  his  noon  luncheon,  too  ; 
under  the  lee  of  a  rail-fence,  or  a  fallen  trunk, 
tossing  crumbs  and  cheese-rinds  around  him 
for  the  partridges  that  have  become  familiar ; 


HARD    WINTERS.  143 

sunk  clear  down  in  the  quiet  lap  of  his  own  rude 
contemplations,  and,  now  and  then,  taking  the 
altitude  of  the  solar  disk,  like  any  lonely  mar- 
iner on  his  little  deck  in  mid-ocean.  I  always 
liked  to  study  the  character  and  habits  of 
these  rugged,  Saxon,  hirsute,  unflinching 
heroes  of  the  wood ;  and  deemed  them  the 
children  of  Winter,  with  thews  and  sinews 
toughened  by  the  ceaseless  assault  of  the 
winds,  and  nerves  made  steel  by  the  frosts  and 
snows  they  daily  defied,  and  hearts  all  of 
knotty  oak  in  the  endless  changes  and  chances 
of  the  weather. 

This  habit  of  hybernation,  of  literally  going 
into  "  winter  quarters,"  —  like  troops,  or  some 
animals,  or  the  wiser  sort  of  birds,  —  is  just 
the  one  that  gives  to  the  season  its  attractive 
peculiarity  ;  the  difference  between  man  and 
beast  being  this,  that  the  former  may  so  pro- 
vide aliment  for  himself  during  this  period  that 
he  need  not  actually  consume  his  own  in- 
crease, as  bears  are  said  by  naturalists  to  "  fall 
back  on  "  their  own  fat.  It  is  his  period  of  as- 
similation rather,  when  he  makes  all  that  he  has 
stored  up  really  his  own  by  an  interior  and  gen- 
uine experience,  acquired  beneath  his  own  roof 
and  at  the  side  of  his  own  hearth. 

Old  men  love  dearly  to  sit  about  and  tell  — 


144  HOMESPUN. 

so  long  as  they  can  find  believing  listeners  — 
of  the  hardships  of  their  early  winters,  as  of 
seasons  out  of  the  reach  of  parallels.  A  good 
deal  of  it,  of  course,  comes  of  the  lapse  of 
years,  whose  wonderful  mirage  imparts  its  own 
exaggeration  to  every  object  and  scene.  In 
the  village  stores  they  meet  on  winter  after- 
noons, and,  after  letting  the  snow  melt  from 
their  heavy  boots,  rake  over  again  the  tough 
and  charred  knots  that  slumber  in  the  embers 
of  the  past.  There  surely  was  never  so  cold  a 
winter  as  that  of  eighteen  hundred  and  — 
ever  so  far  back ;  then,  the  post-rider  had  to 
travel  on  snow-shoes,  and  throw  the  mail-bags 
ahead  of  him  as  he  went ;  then,  the  sleighing 
held  good  from  before  Thanksgiving  till  after 
the  Governor's  Fast ;  the  roads  were  banked 
up  and  impassable  for  weeks  together;  the 
wild  geese  went  south  earlier  than  they  were 
ever  known  to  go  before,  and  did  not  return 
till  people  had  got  almost  tired  of  looking  for 
them  in  the  Spring ;  the  squirrels  were  seen 
out  upon  the  walls  and  fences  but  once,  or 
twice  at  most,  during  the  whole  winter ;  and 
some  sheep  that  got  buried  in  the  snow  by  ac- 
cident, away  over  on  a  hill  with  a  guttural  In- 
dian name,  subsisted  on  one  another's  wool 
until  they  were  discovered  by  their  bleat  and 
dug  out  into  day  again. 


HARD   WINTERS.  145 

These  stories  are  a  sort  of  family  heirloom  ; 
or,  at  best,  they  have  root  in  the  local  soil,  and 
help  weave  the  sentiment  of  the  neighborhood 
into  a  firmer  social  fabric.  The  cold  snaps  of 
December  are  a  match  for  the  sweltering  heats 
of  August ;  but  people  love  better  to  rehearse 
the  experiences  of  the  former,  just  as  they 
would  rather  dilate  on  vigorous  contests  they 
have  borne  a  part  in,  than  go  over  the  scenes 
of  a  mere  endurance,  in  which  they  were  not 
permitted  to  strike  a  blow. 


ONLY  A  LITTLE. 

NOT  too  much  for  me :  a  little  will  answer :  — 

A  roof  that  lets  doAvn  its  low,  sheltering  eaves, 
An  old  apple-tree  at  the  end  of  the  garden, 

With    a   robin's    nest    hid    in   its    chambers    of 

leaves ; 
Some  red  honeysuckles  in  bloom  on  the  ledges, 

A  carpet  of  grass  spread  in  front  of  the  door, 
A  great  rock  lying  down  by  the  bars  of  the  pas- 
ture, 

And  chestnut-trees  growing  about  in  good  store. 

"What  larger  want  we  than  our  snug  little  parlor? 

What  cosier  place  than  our  porch  in  the  rear? 

We  can  sit  in   them   through   the   sweet  twilights 

of  summer, 
And  keep  love  alive  through   the  whole  of  the 

year. 
Could  I   love  her  the   more   in   the  grandest  of 

mansions, 

Or  feel  her  deep  trust  any  more  in  great  halls? 
Would  she  seem  just  as  dear  in  a  hum  of  strange 

voices, 
As  sitting  here  by  me  within  our  own  walls? 


ONLY  A  LITTLE.  147 

These    closely  clipped    lawns,    and    these    fanciful 

vistas,  — 
These   statues,    and  fountains,   and   gate-lodges, 

too,- 
These   swans   on    the    ponds,    in   their    afternoon 

barges,  — 
These     stables,    and    kennels,    and    everything 

new :  — 
There    is   nothing    about   them   that 's  home-bred 

and  simple, 

As  a  footpath,  a  wicket,  a  rose  by  the  wall ; 
I  would  not  give  up  even  one  rustic  treasure, 
For  the   charm,  or  the   cost,  or  the   name   of 
them  all. 

The    meadow-brook    makes    me    a    right    merry 

neighbor ; 

The  quail  plays  his  pipe  through  the  hot  after- 
noons ; 

The  squirrels  run  over  the  old  oak-tree  branches ; 
And   whippoorwills   come   in   the   summer-night 

moons. 

Just  over  that  hill  are  the  sweet  berry-pastures ; 
This  other  way  stretch  the  deep  woods  where 

I  roam ; 

The  birds  are  awake  in  the  gray  of  the  morning; 
And  roses  look  into  our  windows   at  home. 

It  cost  but  a  trifle  :  more  love  than  hard  money ; 
And  so  it  will  last  us  as  long  as  love's  store;  — 


148  HOMESPUN. 

'T  is  the  heart  that  makes  rich,  or  the  whole  life 

is  pauper, 
And  happiness  gets  through  the   smallest  sized 

door. 
Not  too  much  for  me  ;  no  poor   packhorse  would 

I  be, 

To  load  up  with  riches  for  others  to  come;  — 
This  world  is  compressed  in  the  smallest  of  meas- 
ures, 

And    the    widest    of    realms    is    a    dear    little 
HOME. 


BOOK  SECOND. 


VICINAGE. 


"  There  is  nothing  like  New  England ;  and  nothing  in  New  Eng- 
land like  its  interior  districts."  —  JUDD'S  "  MARGARET." 


THE  TOWN  MEETING. 

R  only  real  democracy  exists  in  the 
country  towns.  The  rest  is  but  limited 
and  representative ;  while  here  it  thrives  in  its 
original  vigor  and  without  restriction. 

In  the  crowd  of  little  towns  that  sprinkle  the 
plains  and  crown  the  hill-tops  of  New  Eng- 
land, independent  sovereignties  as  they  are, 
scenes  as  full  of  interest  are  annually  pre- 
sented —  to  the  inhabitants  and  freeholders, 
certainly  —  as  the  Agora  of  Athens  used  to 
offer  in  that  puissant  and  classic  little  city's 
palmy  days.  It  is  of  just  as  much  conse- 
quence who  shall  represent  the  town  in  the 
next  legislature  as,  in  Attic  history,  who  was 
worthy  to  command  the  fleet,  or  lead  the  land 
forces  against  the  invading  Persians.  The  de- 
liberation on  local  questions  —  as,  how  much 
money  shall  be  appropriated  for  mending  the 
highways,  what  tax  shall  be  laid  for  enlarging 
the  old  school-house,  and  whether  the  township 
is  determined  to  defend  its  sovereignty  against 


152  HOMESPUN. 

the  encroachments  of  a  jealous  neighbor, — 
provokes  as  much  interest,  and  of  as  intense  a 
character,  too,  as  did  any  of  those  larger  topics 
that  swelled  the  soul  of  Demosthenes  into 
phillipics  which  will  be  read  by  the  latest  gen- 
eration that  dwells  on  the  planet. 

At  nine  o'clock  the  bell  rings.  —  the  church 
bell.  For  the  town  meetings  of  the  Homespun 
stamp  are  usually  held  in  the  meeting-house, 
where  many  an  one  secretly  delights  to  take 
sly  revenge  on  the  sanctimonious  necessities 
of  his  Sabbath-day  conduct,  and  so  goes  about 
spitting  and  whittling  pretty  much  as  he  will. 
The  first  work  to  which  the  assembled  demoi 
address  themselves,  is  that  of  choosing  a  Mod- 
erator ;  for  a  ship  might  as  easily  be  worked 
without  a  compass  or  a  helm,  as  a  New  Eng- 
land town  meeting  try  to  get  along  without 
some  controlling  mind  to  tone  down  its  waxing 
energy  and  enthusiasm.  Generally,  this  im- 
posing office  is  a  gift  to  one  of  the  deacons,  if 
he  is  an  elderly  person,  and  the  town  be  a 
small  one ;  or,  in  case  of  contesting  secta- 
rian sentiments,  it  is  laid  with  all  sobriety  upon 
one  of  the  most  staid  and  dignified  out  of  the 
whole  population.  He  assumes  the  office,  not 
troubling  himself  to  return  thanks,  however, — 
raps  out  order  on  the  table  with  his  tough 


THE    TOWN  MEETING.  153 

knuckles,  —  and  asks  the  assembly  to  listen 
with  due  devoutness  to  a  prayer  from  the  lips 
of  the  minister.  This  is  a  custom  peculiarly 
of  New  England  origin  ;  and  if  it  result  in  no 
positive  good,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  it  works 
no  permanent  harm.  Perhaps  the  momentary 
hush  of  voices  within  better  prepares  the  peo- 
ple to  go  seriously  about  the  business  of  the 
day. 

The  Selectmen  —  an  honored  Board,  that  we 
can  only  pity  the  fierce  Grecian  democracies 
for  having  had  to  go  without  —  range  them- 
selves near  the  Moderator ;  a  clerk  is  chosen, 
who  gets  up  and  reads  the  "  warning,"  —  a 
copy  of  which  may  likewise  be  studied  on  the 
sign-post  not  far  from  the  door;  the  business 
designated  on  the  call  is  taken  up  in  order,  and 
forthwith  proceeded  with  according  to  imme- 
morial custom  ;  and  soon  the  general  buzz  of 
voices  and  shuffle  of  feet  betoken  the  interest 
in  which  all  are  alike  absorbed. 

If  it  be  Election  Day,  the  people  are  directed 
by  the  Moderator,  in  a  loud  voice  that  is  aimed 
at  the  singers'  gallery,  to  prepare  their  votes  for 
State  Officers,  members  of  Congress,  Repre- 
sentatives to  the  Legislature,  and  Town  Offi- 
cers, to  be  deposited  in  the  different  ballot- 
boxes  which  he  may  designate,  and  to  pass 


154  HOMESPUN. 

round  —  "  if  they  please  "  —  from  the  right  to 
the  left,  —  "  to  avoid  confusion."  This  is  the 
fun  of  the  day.  The  contesting  political  par- 
ties have  their  challenging  committees  close 
to  the  polls,  whose  duty  it  is  to  dispute  the 
right  of  one  and  another  to  vote,  for  reasons 
valid  or  trivial ;  these  reasons  being  taken  into 
the  revolving  thoughts  of  the  row  of  Select- 
men sitting  close  by,  with  countenances 
equally  serious.  One  voter  has  n't  lived  in 
the  town  as  long  as  he  ought ;  another  has  been 
convicted  of  theft,  or  some  other  petty  crime, 
and  a  certified  copy  of  his  conviction  in  court 
is  all  ready  to  be  produced  by  the  side  chal- 
lenging him.  This  one,  now  coming  up  with 
such  an  air  of  innocence,  is  directly  going  to 
be  charged  with  the  crime  of  not  knowing  how 
to  read ;  and  a  copy  of  the  Constitution  being 
handed  him,  the  work  he  makes  over  the  hie- 
roglyphics of  its  letters  can  be  paralleled  by 
nothing  better  than  the  ignorance  of  scores 
around  of  anything  akin  to  its  meaning.  The 
energy  with  which  this  challenging  business  is 
pushed,  and  the  tough  tenacity  with  which  the 
doubt  or  denial  of  another's  capability  as  a 
voter  is  made  good,  are  excellent  illustrations 
of  those  qualities  of  character  that  make  the 
New  England  man  exactly  what  he  is,  and 


THE   TOWN  MEETING.  155 

nothing  different,  as  his  friends  farther  to  the 
South  would  have  him. 

When  the  voting  on  Representatives  grows 
sluggish,  the  Moderator  straightens  his  legs 
and  asks  them,  in  that  same  Olympian  tone,  if 
they  "  are  all  voted  ; "  soon  after  which,  the 
counting  by  the  Selectmen  begins,  others 
having  meanwhile  stood  by  and  kept  tally  on 
their  own  account.  Now  it  becomes  exciting 
indeed.  It  may  be  the  vote  is  very  close  ;  in 
that  case,  the  outside  counters  and  tally-men 
are  as  much  in  the  dark  as  the  rest,  since  they 
may  have  been  deceived  in  their  expectations 
from  a  few  men's  ballots,  not  knowing  which 
side  offered  them  the  latest  drink  at  the  tavern. 

Oftentimes  it  is  announced  from  the  Chair, 
that  "  there  has  been  no  choice,  and  you  will 
therefore  please  prepare  your  votes  again." 
This  moderatorial  edict  is  echoed  up  in  the 
bell-tower,  a  few  pulls  at  the  clapper  proclaim- 
ing to  all  stragglers,  and  to  those  who  would 
like  to  go  home  after  voting  once,  that  it  is 
necessary  to  go  over  it  all  again.  And  then 
begins  the  tug  of  war.  The  whippers-in  of 
each  party  fall  upon  their  victims  with  the  ra- 
pacity of  harpies.  One  never  before  witnessed, 
and  never  will  again,  such  personal  partiality 
of  the  high  for  the  low,  and  the  clean  for  the  un- 


156  HOMESPUN. 

clean ;  nor  heard  such  protestations  of  undying 
friendship  and  devotion.  It  will  take  but  one 
more  vote,  —  or  two,  or  three,  to  carry  this 
thing  clear  over  to  our  side!  —  and  the  zeal 
flames  up  in  astonishing  disproportion  to  the 
chances. 

Perhaps,  even  the  next  time,  no  election  is 
effected  ;  nor  the  next,  nor  the  next.  Then  the 
Statute  makes  provision  for  the  case,  and  an- 
other election  is  ordered  for  another  day.  But 
the  general  tickets  are  not  taken  from  the  boxes 
and  counted  and  proclaimed,  until  the  hour  lim- 
ited by  the  law  has  passed  ;  before  which  time,  a 
pretty  strict  tally  having  been  kept  through  the 
day  by  party  lieutenants,  it  is  generally  known 
how  the  balloting  stands,  and  a  small  knot 
only  is  therefore  collected  about  the  polls. 
When,  however,  the  general  result  is  declared, 
some  enthusiastic  partisan  always  stands  ready 
to  give  the  bell-rope  a  vigorous  twitch  or  two 
in  honor  of  his  own  side,  and  it  is  understood 
all  through  the  town  that  election  is  finally  over. 
A  new  notch  has  been  nicked  in  the  town's 
history. 

A  great  deal  of  interest  is  let  down  upon 
this  occasion  through  the  side-lights ;  that  is  to 
say,  the  oyster-stands  near  the  horse-sheds  and 
about  the  "  Green,"  as  well  as  the  sly  drinking 


THE   TOWN  MEETING.  157 

scenes  over  at  the  tavern,,  or  in  the  little  back- 
room of  the  grocery  store,  furnish  many  a 
needed  illustration  for  the  work  more  legiti- 
mately performed  in  the  meeting-house.  To 
suppose  that  a  New  England  election  could  be 
successfully  conducted  without  the  help  of 
stewed  oysters,  eaten  out  of  blue-rimmed 
bowls  with  pewter  spoons,  is  to  betray  the 
ignorance  of  the  person  who  ventures  the  con- 
jecture. Or  to  believe  that  a  due  head  of 
partisan  steam  could  be  kept  up  without  regu- 
lar and  repeated  levies  on  the  casks  of  Boston 
rum,  that  are  tucked  away  in  the  dark  recesses 
of  the  back-store  over  the  way,  is  evidence  of 
a  lack  of  familiarity  with  these  matters,  not  to 
be  pardoned  in  any  native  commentator.  Then 
there  is  much  character  to  be  studied  in  the 
talk  that  goes  on  among  the  knots  sprinkled 
about  the  doors,  across  the  road,  out  near  the 
horse-sheds,  and  over  the  Green.  The  Con- 
gressional Debates  reported  for  years  in  the 
"  Globe,"  will  bear  but  a  slender  comparison 
with  these  for  originality  of  views,  cogency  of 
reasoning,  or  close  personal  application.  Every 
son  of  his  mother  in  New  England  is  a  bom 
talker,  save  only  the  tongue-tied  ones ;  and  he 
does  no  talking  so  thoroughly  as  this  to  which 
he  "calculates"  to  devote  himself  on  town- 
meeting  day. 


158  HOMESPUN, 

They  hold  a  second  convention  of  the  sov- 
ereigns, in  another  season  of  the  year ;  when 
the  strictly  local  interests  are  debated  and  dis- 
posed of  as  they  ought  to  be.  At  this  they 
choose  their  selectmen,  justices  of  the  peace, 
tithing-men,  and —  greatest  of  all  —  fill  the  an- 
cient and  honorable  office  of  "  hog-reeve."  In 
many  localities  this  last  popular  gift  is  as 
highly  esteemed,  and  bestowed  with  quite  as 
much  seriousness,  as  those  other  ones  which 
bring  the  recipients  a  little  more  prominently 
before  the  eyes  of  the  world.  In  others,  how- 
ever, it  has  mysteriously  parted  with  its  ancient 
dignity,  and  is  not  much  better  than  a  pasqui- 
nade, to  fling  at  the  head  of  some  one  who 
happens  either  to  be  odious  or  the  town  butt. 
An  instance  of  sharp  retaliation  for  the  unex- 
pected bestowal  of  this  honor  just  now  occurs 
to  me.  A  certain  Judge,  —  a  man  of  large 
attainments  and  sharp-edged  sarcasm,  —  who 
found  himself  one  day  elevated  -to  this  position 
by  a  secret  conspiracy  among  those  whom  he 
had  not  altogether  pleased  hitherto,  seeing  the 
delight  with  which  his  election  was  greeted, 
stepped  up  on  one  of  the  benches  next  him,  and 
blandly  asked  if  those  who  had  been  good 
enough  to  vote  for  him  would  gratify  him  so 
much  as  to  rise  in  their  places.  Nothing 


THE   TOWN  MEETING.  159 

daunted,  the  conspirators  got  up  in  a  defiant 
body,  meeting  his  open  look  with  their  ill- sup- 
pressed jeers.  "Ah!  that  will  do!"  returned 
the  Judge ;  "  I  thank  you.  I  only  wanted  to 
see  about  how  many  hogs  I  had  got  to  have  the 
care  of!  "  Scrupulous  care  was  had,  after  that 
year,  in  offering  to  others  an  honor  which  had 
once  disgraced  none  but  those  who  bestowed  it. 

The  natural  aptitude  for  affairs  that  so 

marks  the  character  of  the  men  of  New  Eng- 
land, is  discoverable  here  in  their  little  town- 
meetings.  There  is  many  a  young  fellow,  just 
through  his  college  studies,  who  would  gladly 
exchange  all  his  acquired  readiness  in  translat- 
ing the  Greek  and  Latin  poets  for  the  practical, 
up-and-down  knowledge  of  a  respectable  se- 
lectman, or  town  assessor.  As  for  the  science 
of  debate,  it  would  be  hard  to  find  bodies  of 
men  anywhere  who  could  utter  as  much  in  so 
few  and  pointed  words.  If  they  do  debate  a 
matter,  it  is  not  for  the  sake  of  displaying  their 
reading  or  their  rhetoric ;  but  they  go  straight 
to  the  core  of  it,  and  make  it  appear  very 
shortly  whether  a  new  proposition,  or  plan,  is 
likely  to  be  "  worth  the  while  "  or  not.  That 
is  the  mighty  touchstone  of  all  their  views. 
The  same  thrift  that  puts  the  individual  on  the 
road  to  independence,  is  made  to  pave  the 
town's  highway  to  power. 


160 


HOMESPUN. 


And  these  are  the    men  who  hold  in 

their  hard  and  honest  hands  the  safety  of  our 
country,  —  of  our  all.  Verily,  the  town-meet- 
ing is  the  nursery  of  the  national  life.  In  this 
little  and  remote  assembly  are  fashioned  the 
principles  of  the  men  that  make  us  just  what 
we  are  before  the  world. 


THE  COUNTRY  STORE. 

FOR  lack  of  theatre,  music  hall,  fantoccini; 
or  riding  in  the  Park,  the  people  of  the  in- 
terior districts  are  compelled  to  fall  back  on 
something  else  in  the  line  of  amusement,  than 
which  no  entertainment  could  well  be  held  in 
higher  esteem.  It  is  the  Country  Store.  This 
modest  "  institution "  is  as  distinct,  too,  and 
well  defined  in  the  social  landscape  as  the  spire 
of  Trinity,  or  the  gray  shaft  on  Bunker  Hill. 

The  whole  population  of  the  neighborhood 
resort  to  it  with  regularity  ;  —  all  the  loungers, 
all  the  idlers,  all  who  have  done  up  their  weary 
day's  work,  all  the  town  gads  and  gossips  in 
trousers,  as  well  as  all  those  who  go  for  mo- 
lasses in  jugs,  for  nails,  tobacco,  and  raisins,  — 
loiter,  and  talk,  and  listen  in  this  most  conven- 
ient place  of  public  reception.  And  if  store 
and  Post-office  chance  to  be  combined,  the 
flocking  of  the  sovereigns,  with  wives  and  off- 
spring, fairly  puts  one  out  in  any  attempt  at 
description.  Besides  the  sugar,  nails,  tea,  cod- 


162  HOMESPUN. 

fish,  soap,  and  brooms,  there  lie  all  the  letters 
that  are  addressed  personally  to  the  men  and 
women  of  the  town. 

Truly,  an  item  to  be  thought  of.  The 

sum  total  of  all  their  correspondence  with  the 
strayed-away  cousins,  nieces,  nephews,  and  chil- 
dren. Therefore  at  this  little  hive  the  swarm- 
ing town  collects.  Therefore  do  they  come 
hither,  evening  after  evening,  picking  up  waifs 
of  news  and  watching  like  paid  detectives  the 
postmaster's  distribution  of  the  letters.  There- 
fore do  they  hustle  and  bustle  around  that  func- 
tionary's person  when  the  mail-bag  is  fetched 
in  from  the  coach,  and  proffer  assistance  in  as- 
sorting the  miscellaneous  newspapers  which 
he  empties  over  the  counter.  Offering  advice, 
when  it  is  needed  and  when  it  is  n't.  Submit- 
ting comments — original  and  assorted  —  on 
all  classes  of  topics,  with  such  sly  foot-notes 
as  one  may  not  at  first  understand. 

Then  a  country  store  is  a  strangely  quiet 
place,  of  an  afternoon,  whether  in  summer  or 
winter.  Save  when,  perhaps,  some  little  girl 
patters  in  to  exchange  a  skein  of  thread,  the 
flies  and  the  rural  merchant  have  it  entirely  to 
themselves.  If  the  place  is  in  charge  of  a 
spruce  young  clerk,  in  lieu  of  the  master,  he 
employs  himself  with  brush  and  oils  at  the  lit- 


THE   COUNTRY  STORE.  163 

tie  cracked  mirror  behind  the  high  desk,  and 
lets  the  flies  sun  themselves  in  sleepy  knots 
over  the  floor. 

It  is  not  less  a  realm  of  doziness,  either,  in 
planting-time,  and  through  the  sweaty  spell  of 
haying.  In  the  former  season,  the  men  are  about 
the  gardens  and  off  over  their  farms,  and  a  fox 
might  take  a  leisurely  trot  through  the  town 
street  without  attracting  the  eye  of  master  or 
hound.  Perhaps  an  enterprising  pedler,  atop 
of  a  bright  red  wagon,  trundles  up  to  the  door- 
step, and,  from  his  canopied  box,  "  passes  the 
time  of  day"  with  the  prompt  clerk,  asks  for 
latest  news,  and  offers  essences  at  the  very  low- 
est "  figger."  Or  a  stray  cow  comes  tearing 
off  the  succulent  grass  like  silk  near  the  door, 
perhaps  with  a  bell  strapped  about  her  neck, 
and  putting  the  town  more  completely  to  sleep 
with  its  somnolent  melodies. 

This  is  the  store  in  the  country  town,  or  the 
village.  It  sometimes  stands,  however,  away 
by  itself  at  the  crossing  of  two  roads,  with  the 
proprietor's  dwelling  in  close  propinquity ;  its 
entire  front  protected  from  burglars  by  the  an- 
cient swing-shutter,  and  barricaded  with  boxes 
and  buckets,  half  filled  with  beans  and  dried 
apples  and  oats,  that  are  tilted  on  the  broad 
shelf  just  under  the  window ;  —  I  do  not  be- 


164  HOMESPUN. 

lieve  a  lonelier  spot  can  be  found  in  the  whole 
range  of  puritan  New  England  ;  a  mill-pond  in 
a  fade.d  December  afternoon  is  a  place  of  re- 
sort, by  comparison,  —  a  hemlock  thicket  at 
sunset  is  noisy  in  contrast  with  its  sepulchral 
desolateness. 

But  when  farming  does  not  drive,  and  leisure 
is  to  be  had  in  solid  junks  by  all  who  want  it, 
the  store  is  not  altogether  so  bare  of  interest  to 
the  casual  observer.  Huddled  as  the  talking 
population  love  to  be  found,  their  portraits,  or 
full-lengths,  may  then  be  readily  taken.  The 
men  and  the  boys,  perched  on  barrels  or  the 
counters,  either  swing  their  feet  and  gossip,  or 
swing  their  feet  and  spit.  If  it  is  winter,  they 
cuddle  up  to  the  dull  box-stove,  and  polish  the 
long  pipe  with  their  hard  palms  as  coolly  as 
if  they  were  salamanders.  They  are  stowed 
in  unseen  corners,  too,  —  the  young  fellows  in 
particular,  —  where  they  work  over  colorless, 
but  sometimes  rank,  jokes  in  half  whispers,  and 
snicker  in  nasal  unison  over  their  odd  confi- 
dences about  the  girls.  The  small  boys  drink 
in  what  falls,  grinning  bashfully  when  the  larger 
ones  laugh  ;  they  are  taking  their  early  lessons 
faithfully  and  well. 

Of  winter  evenings,  the  stove,  crammed  with 
seasoned  sticks,  roars  like  any  menagerie  lion. 


THE  COUNTRY  STORE.  165 

No  January  winds  without  can  drown  its 
growling  sound.  The  loungers  are  gathered 
in  a  great  open  circle,  each  with  a  hand  erected 
for  a  screen.  There  it  is  the  affairs  of  the 
nation  are  sifted ;  there  each  town  sovereign 
closes  and  grapples  with  his  dissenting  neigh- 
bor, and  finds  his  own  personal  niche  among 
those  occupied  by  the  local  worthies.  The 
minister's  last  sermon  comes  up  for  analysis 
at  this  rustic  round-table ;  when  the  astonish- 
ing fact  is  revealed,  that  they  are  all  not  less 
profound  theologians  than  marvellous  masters 
of  state  craft  and  civil  polity. 

Or,  on  topics  of  gallantry,  of  reputation,  of 
property,  of  talents,  —  this  is  the  Country  Club 
to  begin  at  the  beginning,  and  not  leave  off  till 
the  end.  I  have  many  a  time  sat  and  won- 
dered, looking  at  them  thus  engaged,  what  pos- 
sible escape-valve  would  serve  their  turn,  if 
this  free-and-easy  privilege  at  the  store  should 
chance  to  be  cut  off!  If  they  talk  only  un- 
qualified scandal  now,  they  might  be  guilty  of 
the  sin  of  provoking  it  then;  —  and  which,  I 
beg  to  know,  on  your  conscience  and  honor, 
would  be  worse  ?  If  some  of  us  may  not  serve 
the  turn  of  harmless  local  historians,  or  annal- 
ists, then  we  must,  perforce,  go  at  it  as  heroes, 
and  become  naughty  men. 


166  HOMESPUN. 

One  may  as  well  style  the  country  store 

the  Forum  for  the  town  in  which  it  stands. 
Neither  the  Forum  at  old  Rome,  nor  the  Agora 
at  Athens,  showed  greater  in  their  own  way 
and  day.  It  is  a  really  homespun  institution, 
—  everything  we  have  is  an  "  institution,"  in 
this  country,  —  and  wears  like  the  sterling  fab- 
ric's own  self.  Here  are  held  the  local  debates, 
nightly,  as  in  Parliament,  through  the  cold 
weather.  Here  issues  are  joined,  and  the  tal- 
low candles  flare  applause  or  sputter  disappro- 
bation. 

Or,  you  may  say  it  is  the  place  of  the 

tov  r  assizes.  In  some  country  settlements, 
there  are  men  who  are  bloody  Jeffreys  at  heart, 
delighting  to  bully  the  rest  with  their  decisions, 
and  permitting  neither  appeal  nor  extenuation. 
In  others,  you  will  find  honest  Matthew  Hales 
enough  to  keep  sweet  the  whole  body  of  public 
sentiment  by  their  fair,  open,  and  well-balanced 
judgments.  For  judgments  are  to  be  made 
up,  —  must  be  made  up  ;  that  being  the  "  chief 
end  of  man,"  in  these  little  social  bailiwicks. 

To  the  store  flock  the  farmers,  in  ear- 
nest with  their  spring  work,  after  seeds  and 
manures  and  agricultural  implements.  Boys 
run  thither  on  errands  for  their  mothers,  their 
sisters,  and  themselves.  Thrifty  housewives 


THE  COUNTRY  STORE.  167 

drive  up  before  the  door  at  an  early  forenoon 
hour,  in  the  summer  time,  and  go  in  to  make 
barter  of  eggs,  and  cheese,  and  stocking-yarn 
for  cotton  cloth,  or  calico,  or  new  shoes  with 
a  proper  "  power "  of  squeak  in  them.  The 
girls  flock,  with  red  blushes  burning  in  their 
cheeks,  to  see  if  anything  lies  over  for  them 
in  the  mail,  or  to  exchange  a  few  words  with 
the  sleek-haired  clerk,  or  to  finger,  for  the 
twentieth  time,  the  limited  stock  of  berages, 
prints,  and  mousselin  de  laines  which  he  ever 
stands  ready  to  spread  about  the  counter. 

You  will  see  a  whole  caravan  of  old  family 
cobs  about  the  premises,  some  with  bob-tails 
and  some  with  switch,  holding  down  their 
heads  and  drowsing  away  the  hours  as  if  they 
had  cropped  poppy-heads  instead  of  green  clo- 
ver, for  their  summer  morning  repast.  And 
elderly  females  are  visible,  too,  climbing  frisk- 
ily into  and  out  of  their  open  wagons,  the 
day's  successful  barter  giving  them  the  nerve 
required  to  keep  them  from  falling. 

As  politicians,  the  men  who  gather  statedly 
at  the  country  store  strain  the  limits  of  com- 
mon comprehension.  On  city  rostrums,  it  is 
thought  the  political  notorieties  sometimes 
give  a  start  to  the  public  pulse ;  but  at  the 
store,  the  work  is  personal,  and  striking,  and 


168  HOMESPUN. 

thorough,  beyond  example.  They  make  it 
their  grand  point  here  to  corner  a  man  ;  after 
which  operation,  it  is  thought  he  is  not  worth 
putting  forth  much  strength  upon.  It  is  held 
to  be  the  coronal  feature  of  argumentative 
skill  and  power,  to  get  an  opponent  "  where  he 
can't  get  away."  And  so  it  is,  according  to 
Socrates  himself,  who  had  an  awfully  teazing 
way  of  putting  questions  ;  —  or  agreeably  to 
Father  Aristotle,  who  led  by  the  nose  the  rest 
of  the  dialecticians  of  his  day,  and  impressed 
his  system  on  all  the  schools  of  Europe  after 
him.  To  "  argue  the  point "  is  esteemed  one 
of  the  divine  Rights  of  Man ;  and  no  govern- 
ment or  authority  shall  dare  take  it  out  of 
their  hands. 

Yet  no  two  persons  are  permitted  the  lux- 
ury of  having  it  all  to  themselves ;  the  rest 
claim  their  privilege  of  breaking  down  the 
ropes  of  the  ring,  and  taking  a  hand  as  well. 
Political  newspapers  are  published  chiefly  for 
these  very  friends  of  ours,  who  devour  them  as 
eagerly  as  rich  men  once  used  to  consume  wid- 
ows' houses.  For  them  the  bulky  "  Congress- 
ional Debates  "  are  printed  (on  execrable  con- 
tract paper)  by  authority  of  Congress  ;  and  to 
their  columns  they  repair  for  ammunition  with 
the  regularity  of  artillerists  in  action  to  caissons 


THE  COUNTRY  STORE.  169 

and  portable  magazines.  No  good  deacon, 
zealous  beyond  discretion,  ever  hurled  texts  at 
the  head  of  a  doubter  with  such  overwhelming 
effect,  as  do  these  native  balearists  rain  down 
dates,  names,  and  quotations  on  the  battered 
skulls  of  political  contestants.  Theirs  the  task 
of  Cerberus  and  Rhadamanthus  both ;  they 
form  the  Caucus,  —  the  Congress,  —  the  real 
Democracy.  Wars  and  rumors  of  wars  ;  elec- 
tions and  estimated  results ;  reputations,  both 
public  and  private  ;  cases  in  court,  —  the  doc- 
trinal soundness  of  the  minister,  —  the  state 
of  the  crops  and  the  weather ;  —  none  think 
themselves  their  equals  in  the  discussion  and 
disposal  of  these  topics  all. 

It  is  excellent  for  an  open  and  sunny 

heart,  in  the  autumn  season,  to  let  the  eyes 
run  round  among  the  crook-necks,  and  yellow 
mastodons  of  pumpkins,  and  barrels  of  clean, 
white  beans,  and  thin-skinned  potatoes,  that 
garnish  and  stuff  out  the  apartment,  from  ceil- 
ing to  cellar-door.  The  store  has  then  been 
transformed  into  the  town  museum  of  agricul- 
ture. Here  the  good  farmers  hold  their  in-door 
local  shows ;  here  quietly  rehearse  the  labors  of 
the  season  just  ending,  and  estimate  personal 
gains  in  oats,  corn,  and  potatoes.  They  make 
calculations  on  the  number  of  cows  they  wili 


170  HOMESPUN. 

winter,  and  compute  (in  money)  the  amount 
of  fleece  wool  the  "  wimmen  folks  "  will  get 
carded  and  rolled  for  the  cold-weather  season 
of  spinning.  Their  talk  is  of  crops,  of  fruit, 
horses,  sheep,  and  cattle ;  —  of  girth,  and 
draught,  and  year-olds,  and  fattening  by  stall- 
feeding; 

If  you  ever  drive  through  one  of  these  back 
towns  in  pleasant  weather,  it  will  pay  you  well 
to  feed  your  beast  a  half-peck  of  oats  (last 
year's  are  best,  the  farmers  say,)  in  the  feed- 
ing-trough under  the  shed,  and  lounge  into 
the  store  yourself  for  the  pure  recreation  of 
seeing  and  being  seen.  The  store-keeper  will 
not  be  behind  with  substantial  civilities ;  you 
shall  make  no  complaint  for  lack  of  attention 
from  the  gathering  bystanders  until  your  horse 
has  eaten  his  last  oat  and  set  up  a  neighing 
for  more  ;  and  the  inevitable  codfish  and  string 
of  onions  hanging  on  the  outside  wall  will 
haunt  you  with  dreams  of  traffic  and  commer- 
cial adventure,  till  you  even  set  foot  on  Long 
Wharf  again  and  welcome  the  coasters  from 
the  Banks  and  Old  Weathersfield. 


THE  COUNTRY  TAVERN. 

IT  was  a  sort  of  half-way  house  between 
home  and  the  open  world.  You  might 
style  it  Home  on  the  Road.  It  was  the  limit 
where  the  shyer  and  tenderer  domestic  feelings 
began  to  let  go  their  hold,  and  give  place  to 
the  bold  and  bustling  influences  of  the  world. 
The  hotel  of  the  city  has  little  in  common 
with  the  tavern  of  gone-by  days,  and  can 
scarcely  claim  kinship.  That  was  a  peculiar 
social  construction,  shaped  and  furnished  ex- 
actly to  the  purposes  it  was  to  serve.  We 
find  nothing  like  it  in  these  times,  not  even  in 
the  country  itself. 

On  the  subject  of  inns,  Dr.  Johnson's  dic- 
tum may  be  worth  quoting  again  :  —  "  No, 
sir,"  said  he,  "  there  is  nothing  which  has  yet 
been  contrived  by  man,  by  which  so  much 
happiness  is  produced  as  by  a  good  tavern  or 
inn."  And  he  was  fond  of  repeating  Shen- 
stone's  well-known  lines  in  support  of  his  sen- 
timent :  — 


172  HOMESPUN. 

"  Whoe'er  has  travelled  life's  dull  round, 

Where'er  his  stages  may  have  been, 
May  sigh  to  think  he  still  has  found 
The  warmest  •welcome  at  an  inn." 

The  romances  of  Sir  Walter  are  full  of  inns 
of  every  name  and  character.  There  is  inn 
talk  of  the  most  attractive  sort  in  "  Don  Quix- 
ote" and  "  Gil  Bias."  Sterne  and  Smollett  and 
Fielding  carry  us  off  by  the  arm  to  the  near- 
est tavern,  where  good  cheer  abounds,  and 
care  is  soon  dissipated,  and  the  hard  walls  of 
real  life  become  the  merest  boundaries  of  air. 

Shakspeare,  too,  was  a  confirmed  tavern 
haunter,  and  knows  not  how  to  keep  it  a  se- 
cret in  his  comedies.  Multitudes  of  his  finest 
fancies  flew  up  to  the  clear  sky  of  his  mind 
while  sitting  in  his  favorite  "  Boar's  Head  "  at 
Eastcheap.  Ben  Jonson  —  ''  rare  Ben  "  — 
was  altogether  at  home  in  the  tavern's  inspir- 
ing purlieus ;  and  ruled  the  roast  there  in  the 
midst  of  his  learned  and  witty  compeers.  Dry- 
den  sat  at  "  Will's,"  dispensing  oracles  and 
judgments  to  listening  circles  for  all  London. 
But  jolly  Sir  John,  —  that  hero  without  cour- 
age, that  never-full  butt  of  old-fashion  sack,  — 
he  remains  chief  and  hugest  of  all  tavern- 
haunters  of  any  abiding  repute.  His  great 
creator  conceived  him  in  the  heart  of  the  place 
where  the  best  of  his  corpulent  life  was  spent. 


THE    COUNTRY  TAVERN.  173 

Everybody  who  reads  knows  his  habit  of  tak- 
ing his  ease  in  his  own  inn. 

The  wits  of  Charles  the  Second's  time,  and 
of  Anne's,  were  wont  to  make  of  the  tavern 
their  council  chamber ;  and  at  length  it  be- 
came a  forcing-house  for  all  the  sayings,  fine 
and  coarse,  that  delighted  the  town  or  pro- 
voked to  reading.  Who  loved  the  old  haunts 
better  than  Dick  Steele,  —  that  pattern  of  un- 
thriffc  and  preacher  of  true  gallantry  ?  Who 
could  conceive,  in  their  little  back-rooms,  a 
nobler  Cato,  or  profounder  judgments  on  the 
genius  of  Milton,  or  an  honester  country 
'squire  than  Sir  Roger  de  Coverly,  than  Addi- 
son,  with  his  black  bottle  at  his  elbow  ?  And 
there  was  poor  Burns,  —  he  frequented  the 
taverns  when  he  would  better  have  been  at  the 
tail  of  his  plough,  turning  up  mice-nests  and 
mountain  daisies ;  and  yet  the  tavern  more 
or  less  fed  his  genius,  as  it  lagged  and  loitered 
along  the  rough  road  he  was  destined  to 
travel. 

Going  backwards  again :  one  takes  it  to 
heart  like  a  pleasant  experience  of  his  own,  to 
read  what  old  Izaak  Walton,  father  of  all  good 
and  quiet  anglers,  said  and  did,  when  himself 
and  Venator  came,  early  in  the  morning,  to 
the  little  inn  where  the  room  was  stuck  about 


174  HOMESPUN. 

with  ballads  on  the  wall,  and  the  white  sheets 
of  the  hostess  had  such  a  sweet  smell  of  lav- 
ender :  —  "I  '11  now  lead  you  to  an  honest  ale- 
house, where  we  shall  find  a  cleanly  room,  lav- 
ender in  the  windows,  and  twenty  ballads 
stuck  about  the  wall." 

This  ideal  inn,  which  Father  Walton  de- 
scribes with  such  enticing  simplicity,  is  the 
very  one  that,  of  all  others,  has  taken  captive 
our  fancy.  In  lieu  of  scents  of  sour  sack  and 
spoiling  punch,  we  seem  to  smell  the  sweet 
savors  of  primrose  and  dill,  and  the  delicate 
boquet  of  the  bottle  of  elderberry  wine  which 
the  hostess  takes  down  so  choicely  from  the 
cupboard. 

An  old  tavern  used  to  be,  in  the  days  I 

am  calling  up  again  with  such  fondness,  the 
synonym  of  comfort  and  repose  and  plenty. 
We  have  few  or  none  of  these  ancient  affairs 
left  now.  They  and  the  stage-coach  were 
twinned  in  the  inventor's  brain ;  and  when 
one  fell  into  disuse,  it  was  natural  for  the  other 
to  pass  out  of  mind  also.  To  keep  tavern 
without  the  grand  feeder  of  a  stage  line  would 
have  been  making  bricks  without  straw. 

The  railways  have,  with  a  merciless  straight- 
line  energy,  cut  and  slashed  up  the  pleasant 


THE   COUNTRY  TAVERN.  175 

old  solitary  turnpikes  and  quiet  by-roads 
where  the  stage-coach  once  rattled  its  wheels 
and  smacked  its  whip,  —  and  the  life-blood  of 
ancient  tavern-keeping  has  thus  been  drained 
off  into  a  swifter  channel ;  so  that  "  entertain- 
ment for  man  and  beast "  put  away  its  dusty 
but  honest  toggery,  and  followed  the  style  and 
whim  of  the  railway.  Hence,  if  you  look  for 
"  entertainment,"  —  which  socially  implies 
what  is  domestic  and  cheerful  for  the  tired 
traveller,  you  will  now  find  nothing  more  than 
"  refreshments,"  —  which  mean  a  sanded  floor, 
wire-dish  covers  in  blue,  swarms  of  flies,  and  a 
coming  train.  Ah !  but  these  times  are  not 
those  times !  The  sorriest  of  it  all  is,  too,  that 
none  of  us  will  live  to  know  the  broad  and 
hearty  reality  of  the  by-gone  days  again  ! 

Still,  it  is  due  to  posterity  that  the  memory 
of  the  Old  Tavern,  and  of  the  many  kind  offi- 
ces it  has  so  cheerfully  performed  for  humanity, 
be  kept  green.  Let  us  live  it  all  over  again, 
though  it  be  but  in  the  reproduction  of  a 
youthful  dream. 

In  the  first  place,  and  to  begin  at  the 

beginning,  it  was  a  wonderful  mart  for  coaches. 
They  stood  under  almost  every  shed  that  made 
a  convenient  lean-to  in  the  spacious  yard,  and 
in  nearly  every  stage  of  existence,  —  from  the 


176  HOMESPUN. 

freshly  varnished  one,  just  come  in,  to  the  pot- 
bellied old  veteran  that  had  patiently  carried 
well-nigh  a  whole  generation  over  the  hills.  On 
some  the  dust  was  piled  thickly ;  stable-boys 
were  busy  washing  up  the  wheels  of  others ; 
here  and  there  was  a  decrepit  customer,  unques- 
tionably crippled  by  an  uncalculating  whip  with 
a  cruel  overload  ;  but  the  prevailing  expression 
of  the  yard  was  that  of  coaches.  Had  the 
place  been  cleaned  of  them  at  a  single  vigor- 
ous sweep,  it  would  have  looked  as  empty  as  a 
library  with  the  books  gone  from  the  shelves. 

In  the  centre  of  this  tavern  court-yard,  a 
pump,  with  a  jolly  squeak  that  seemed  to  start 
up  business  all  about  the  place.  Horses  were 
led  out  to  the  great  trough  under  its  nose,  and 
sometimes  slipped  away  from  the  boys  who  led 
them,  snorting  and  tearing  back  to  the  stable 
again.  A  long  and  broad  "  stoop  "  behind  the 
low-roofed  house,  whereon  were  set  pails,  pans, 
baskets,  and  other  housekeeping  utensils,  —  a 
very  miscellaneous  assortment.  Beds  crammed 
out  through  the  upper  back  windows,  for  a  brief 
morning  airing.  Doves  wheeling  and  tumbling 
about,  or  setting  up  their  monotonous  domestic 
cries  close  under  the  barn  eaves. 

There  used  to  be  a  wide  and  spacious  hall 
reaching  from  the  front  entrance  of  the  house, 


THE   COUNTRY  TAVERN.  177 

and  a  broad  and  inviting  porch,  the  picture  of 
hospitality,  with  an  ample  seat  on  either  side, 
projected  to  correspond.  It  was  all  smooth 
and  faultlessly  clean  about  the  door,  the  short 
grass  making  a  green  margin  for  a  sufficient 
drive  for  vehicles  of  all  sorts,  and  many  at  a 
time,  to  come  up  composedly  before  the  win- 
dows. Lights  were  flashing,  and  cheery  wood- 
fires  blazing  in  the  great  square  rooms  when 
the  laden  coach  rattled  up  to  the  door,  just  at 
night  in  late  autumn ;  and  never  was  sincerer 
welcome  extended  to  weary  souls  away  from 
their  own  home-hearth,  than  came  playing  and 
dancing  forth  from  those  flames  into  their  eager 
eyes.  The  pursy  landlord  —  best  evidence  of 
his  own  tavern-fare  —  bustled  in  and  out  of 
the  rooms,  explaining  to  one  where  he  could 
be  accommodated  with  "  travellers'  rest,"  and 
showing  another  into  the  wash-room,  —  now 
stirring  up  the  fire  with  a  fresh  inspiration  of 
industry,  and  now  suddenly  retreating  to  an- 
swer a  call  in  the  low-studded  bar-room.  He 
made  himself  genial  to  all ;  put  general  ques- 
tions, and  made  general  answers  to  all  par- 
ticular ones ;  and  gave  over  no  personal  effort 
until  he  saw  for  himself  that  every  man,  woman, 
and  child  had  fallen  naturally  into  place  in  his 
own  family  circle,  and  satisfied  his  honest  judg- 
12 


178  HOMESPUN. 

ment  that  they  were  thoroughly  comfortable 
and  happy. 

He  ?  —  why,  bless  your  heart !  he  made  it  a 
point  in  his  education  as  an  accomplished  pub- 
lican, to  qualify  himself  to  "  talk  politics  "  — 
though  not  to  venture  upon  discussion —  with 
every  judge,  lawyer,  and  public  character  whom 
the  coach  —  which  to  him  stood  for  the  world 
—  might  please  to  bring  to  his  door.  He  would 
have  felt  illy  adapted  to  his  station,  had  he 
come  short  in  so  important  a  particular.  Now- 
adays, the  very  boys  talk  politics,  with  una- 
bashed vociferousness ;  and  even  the  women, 
too ;  and  the  wise  man  is  he  wTho  shuts  tight 
his  lips  and  stays,  like  a  hermit  or  a  turtle,  with 
his  own  wisdom  at  home.  All  the  ministers, 
the  country  round,  he  knew  by  creed  and 
name  ;  and  he  would  dispense  as  full  and  fair 
a  judgment  on  both,  in  a  few  shrewdly  wise 
phrases,  as  they  could  themselves  have  passed 
on  their  own  doctrines  and  in  their  own  pul- 
pits. He  was  the  genius  loci;  and  unless  his 
familiar  and  effulgent  countenance  was  seen 
of  the  traveller  as  he  drove  up  to  share  his  wel- 
come entertainment,  he  seemed  to  have  missed 
of  the  pith  of  his  visit  altogether.  For  food 
and  lodging  were  not  quite  all  the  stranger  ex- 
pected to  find  there  ;  he  looked  for  a  share  of 


THE    COUNTRY   TAVERN.  179 

the  landlord's  cheery  greeting  and  cordial  con- 
versation. 

Between  the  people  of  the  neighborhood  and 
their  wonted  social  recreations  he  served  as  a 
sort  of  connecting  link,  or  substantial  hyphen  ; 
if  anything  was  going  on,  or  was  likely  to  go 
on,  our  jolly  host  could  whisper  you  all  there 
was  to  it,  because  it  had  been  invariably  con- 
certed at  tavern  headquarters.  More  business 
—  in  the  line  of  pleasure — was  here  set  on 
foot  than  anywhere  else  in  the  town  or  the 
country  round  about.  The  landlord  must  needs 
be  consulted  about  the  next  ball,  or  the  select 
cotillon  party,  or  the  harvest  supper  of  a  circle 
of  old-friend  farmers,  or  on  matters  of  that  sort. 
Was  there  a  squirrel  hunt  in  the  autumn  ? 
Never  until  the  arrangements  for  picking  clean 
their  little  bones  at  the  long  table  in  his  dining- 
room  had  all  been  gone  over  with  so  much  care, 
and  the  whole  cost  and  outlay  duly  estimated 
at  his  hands. 

If  a  drover  stopped  over  night  with  him,  he 
could  answer  every  one  of  his  inquiries  for  lo- 
cal news  while  he  was  twirling  the  toddy-stick 
in  his  customer's  punch  at  the  bar.  Would  a 
family  party,  on  an  excursion  of  pleasure  across 
the  country,  "  put  up  "  with  him  till  next  morn- 
ing ? —  he  was  at  the  door  as  quick,  as  they 


180  HOMESPUN. 

were  at  the  step  themselves,  and  made  it  hard 
for  them  to  believe  they  had  wandered  very  far 
from  their  own  threshold,  after  all.  The  man, 
in  fact,  was  like  his  inn,  —  broad,  welcoming, 
sunny,  domestic,  full  of  light  and  life,  and 
withal  as  plain  as  he  was  sincere.  These  later 
times  seem  to  demand  no  such  characters  in 
their  hasty  service,  and  therefore  none  such  are 
to  be  found. 

The  stage-coach  driver  was  a  feature  of  the 
Old  Tavern,  as  distinct  as  the  landlord's  self. 
Muffled,  in  winter,  in  his  huge  gray  woollen  tie, 
and  nested  in  warm  robes  that  defiantly  flung 
off  the  icy  arrows  of  the  season,  he  was  the 
passing  envy  of  half  the  rosy  girls  and  all  the 
little  boys  the  country  round.  What  a  rever- 
berating ti-ra-tir-a-la !  he  shook  out  from  the 
nozzle  of  that  well-worn  horn  of  his,  as  he  crept 
over  the  summit  of  the  hill  from  which  he 
could  see  the  roofs  and  smokes  of  the  Tavern  ! 
Countless  were  the  errands  entrusted  to  his 
elastic  memory,  and  his  perennial  spring  of 
good-nature  made  their  prompt  discharge  worth 
double  what  they  were  taxed  for  in  his  daily 
reckonings.  He  was,  perforce,  in  the  confi- 
dence of  half  the  girls  along  the  road ;  and 
they  would  have  felt  sadly  slighted  if  he  had 
failed,  even  for  a  single  time,  in  the  dexterous 


THE   COUNTRY  TAVERN.  181 

acknowledgment  of  their  stolen  smiles  and 
glances.  He  could  tell  you,  if  he  so  chose,  and 
if  you  were  lucky  enough  to  ride  on  the  box 
with  him,  who  was  likely  to  "  catch  "  this  one, 
and  who  not  long  ago  "  got  the  mitten  "  from 
that.  A  very  fund,  nay,  a  strong-box  of  dear 
little  secrets  was  he,  and  the  key  was  kept  hid 
where  none  but  the  owners  of  their  property 
could  find  it  for  themselves. 

At  the  Tavern  were  consummated  cattle 
swaps  and  horse  trades  uncounted.  It  served 
for  their  Exchange ;  and  never  did  a  dicker  or 
a  jockey  occur,  but  the  profit  and  the  loss  were 
each  congratulated  and  consoled  with  sundry 
social  drinks  at  the  bar.  At  all  hours  of  the 
day,  and  through  all  seasons  of  the  year,  a  fly, 
a  sulky,  or  a  skeleton  gig  could  be  seen  some- 
where about  the  yard,  the  property  in  horse-flesh 
changing  hands  so  rapidly  that  one  could  with 
difficulty  trace  it  along  to  its  last  holder.  In 
fact,  the  capacious  stables  were  pied  and  mot- 
tled inwardly  with  all  varieties  of  steeds,  from 
the  showy  and  shiny  bay  to  the  ewe-necked 
and  cat- hammed  drudge  of  the  shiftless  jock- 
ey ;  and  their  study  would  have  held  the  eye 
of  the  naturalist  not  less  than  of  the  fancier. 

The  upper  hall,  of  winter  evenings,  frequeatly 
blazed  with  multitudinous  tallow  lights,  and 


182  HOMESPUN. 

resounded  to  the  inspiring  strains  of  violin 
and  clarionet.  There  the  good  folks  enjoyed 
hearty  times  indeed ;  no  mincing  and  tossing 
while  the  airs  of  Strauss  were  played  so  di- 
vinely,—  no  loud  and  rude  estimates,  such  as 
one  is  compelled  to  hear  now,  of  the  value 
of  the  very  clothes  one  had  on,  or  of  a  part- 
ner's necklace,  already  blooming  and  bouncing 
enough  in  modest  muslin,  —  but  right-down 
enjoyment  all  round  on  the  spot,  as  if  that  was 
the  very  thing  they  came  for.  And  they  never 
went  home  without  having  it.  Nor  were  the 
other  occasions  of  the  year  at  all  cast  into  the 
shadow  by  these  sundry  ball-and-party  "  good 
times  "  ;  the  suppers  and  private  feasts  enjoyed 
under  that  sheltering  roof  were  matters  to  stick 
by  the  memory  of  a  man  long  after  their  flavors 
were  lost  to  his  palate.  Thus  did  the  dull  days 
shut  in  as  much  pleasure  there  as  the  sunny 
ones ;  it  was  all  sunshine  at  the  Old  Tavern, 
and  the  prime  expression  of  the  place  was  one 
of  comfort  and  warmth  and  careful  attention. 
Of  summer  evenings,  through  the  lingering 
twilight,  a  row  of  respectable  idlers  —  the  pro- 
fessional loungers  of  the  town  —  used  to  be 
drawn  up  on  the  low,  long  benches  set  against 
the  house,  whose  heayiest  responsibilities  as  a 
body  were  to  discuss  the  affairs  of  town  and 


THE   COUNTRY  TAVERN.  183 

nation,  and  pass  judgment  on  such  vehicles, 
with  their  contents,  as  chanced  at  that  dreamy 
hour  to  come  up.  This  bench  was  a  sort  of 
idlers'  paradise ;  he  who  sat  on  it  must  cer- 
tainly have  had  his  lids  touched  by  the  wing 
of  somnolency,  for  thereafter  he  seemed  to  have 
no  care,  and  scarcely  to  entertain  a  serious 
thought.  It  was  like  drifting  in  one's  skiff  off 
into  the  region  of  sunset.  A  drowsy  knot  they 
were,  enjoying  the  noiseless  twilight,  the  shel- 
ter of  the  great  elms,  the  quiet  bustle  going  on 
in-doors,  and  the  sleepy  influences  of  their  own 
low  hum  of  talk. 

But  the  Old  Tavern,  alas !  is  no  more. 

You  may  travel  off  among  the  hills  and  up 
and  down  the  ancient  pikes  of  New  England 
in  quest  of  it,  but  you  don't  find  it  there  now. 
The  structure  may  still  be  standing  where  it 
did,  but  it  is  a  comparative  solitude  now ;  no 
life  about  the  yard,  —  no  swarming  in  and  out 
the  doors,  —  no  cheerful  faces  close  to  the  win- 
dows, —  nor  fires  on  the  hearths,  —  nor  lights 
and  music  in  the  halls.  '  Travellers  go  not  now 
by  that  way ;  but  skim  the  ground  a  dozen 
miles  to  the  east  or  west  of  it,  little  thinking 
of  the  substantial  pleasure  their  fathers  and 
mothers  enjoyed  in  that  now  neglected  place, 
when  to  travel  was  to  trundle  over  the  roads  at 


184 


HOMESPUN. 


the  rate  of  forty  miles  a  day,  instead  of  the 
hour,  and  stop  at  all  the  excellent  taverns  that 
once  formed  a  chain  of  posts  from  southern 
New  England  to  the  farthest  lines  of  the  Can- 
adas  in  the  wilderness. 


THE  COUNTET  MUSTER. 

/1RMA.  virumque  cano,  —  or,  at  least,  a  whole 

Regiment  and  its  Colonel. 
Rub-a-dub  !  rub-a-dub  !  —  The  memory  is 
quickened  with  scouting  thoughts  of  Caesar, 
of  Marlborough,  and  of  Israel  Putnam.  One 
tries  in  a  moment  to  think  of  all  the  great 
sieges  in  history,  from  that  of  old  Troy  down 
to  the  later  one  of  Vicksburg ;  of  battles,  and 
skirmishes,  and  victories,  and  retreats ;  of  be- 
leaguered Antwerps,  and  Netberland  Revolts, 
and  Peninsular  Wars ;  of  grimy  cannoniers, 
and  clashing  sabres,  and  rattling  spurs.  And 
still  it  can  be'  heard  a  full  half-mile  off,  far 
away  over  the  green-sward  plain, —  Rub-a- 
dub  !  rub-a-dub  !  rub-a-dub  ! 

The  little  fellows,  on  the  way  to  training  in 
company  with  their  fathers,  can  scarcely  touch 
their  heels  to  the  ground.  Every  breath  of 
wind  that  wafts  .to  their  ears  a  faint  roll  of  the 
martial  music,  stirs  their  impatience  to  put  be- 
hind them  all  the  rods  that  lie  between  their 


186  HOMESPUN. 

feet  and  the  camp-ground.  As  they  come  still 
nearer,  and  see  the  rows  of  dingy  booths  that 
serve  for  tricky  margins  to  the  martial  show, 
with  fiddles  squealing,  and  dancing  going  for- 
ward,—  oysters,  hot  coffee,  gingerbread,  and 
pies  cried  in  their  ears,  —  pedlers  hawking 
their  cheap  wares  from  the  tops  of  wagons, 
men  and  boys  straggling  about  among  the 
carts,  some  singing  drunken  songs  that  overrun 
with  drowsy  riot,  some  mimicking  the  tones  t>f 
the  noisy  auctioneers,  the  women  mingled  in 
with  the  men  all  along  in  front  of  the  military 
lines,  —  they  feel,  at  length,  as  if  the  summit 
of  their  year's  hopes  had  been  reached,  and 
every  heart-beat  responds  to  the  tattoo  of  the 
inspiring  drumstick  at  the  head  of  the  regi- 
ment. 

The  great  "  campus  martius "  presents  the 
usual  motley  of  so  fantastic  a  festival.  There 
is  nothing  in  all  history  before  it,  from  the  hust- 
ling times  of  the  Crusades  to  the  scientific 
defeat  of  Napoleon  at  Waterloo.  Frederick 
of  Prussia  never  plumed  himself  more  on  his 
famous  grenadiers  than  does  the  regimental 
Colonel  on  the  all-sizes  under  his  command, — 
"  Decus  et  tutamen  in  armis"  There  he  is  in 
the  saddle  now !  How  proudly  that  best  piece 
of  horse-flesh  in  the  county  takes  his  martial 


THE   COUNTRY  MUSTER.  187 

paces  across  the  turf  he  spurns !  How  gayly 
glitter  the  epaulettes  of  his  rider  —  how  grace- 
fully waves  his  plume  —  how  noisily  jingle  his 
regimental  trappings !  He  must  assuredly  feel 
as  if  the  neck  of  his  steed  was  "  clothed  with 
thunder."  Achilles  did  not  rush  more  eagerly 
into  the  Trojan  mele£  to  avenge  his  well- 
beloved  Patroclus,  than  does  our  gallant 
Colonel  dash  up  to  his  noble  column,  that 
he  may  prance  his  horse  showily  down  the 
lines  as  far  as  to  his  valiant  ensigns.  —  O 
War!  War!  little  knowest  thou  of  the  blood- 
less farces  that  have  been  annually  performed 
in  old  pastures  and  quiet  back-lots  in  thy 
name  !  We  need  a  Cervantes,  to  show  up  as 
it  should  be  done  the  pleasanter  side  of  thee ! 

The  wagons  from  all  the  quiet  farm- 
houses for  miles  around  are  collecting  as  fast 
as  they  can,  and  the  horses  taken  out  and 
baited  with  the  bundles  of  hay  from  behind 
the  seat ;  all  about  the  grounds  is  an  encamp- 
ment of  farmers'  turn-outs,  the  owners  having 
sprinkled  themselves  over  the  martial  plain. 
The  neighing  of  old  mares  —  hlnnitus  equa- 
rum,  as  Virgil  might  say, —  makes  one  think 
of  the  vast  preparations  of  old  time  for  expedi- 
tions against  the  Infidels,  when  all  the  para- 
phernalia of  war  were  mixed  up  in  distracting 


188  HOMESPUN. 

confusion,  —  booths  and  heroes  and  armor  and 
smiths.  All  comers  are  "  tidied  up  "  in  their 
best  suits,  and  not  a  boy  —  unless  of  the  fight- 
ing class  who  go  to  such  places  —  but  wears 
as  smooth  and  clean  a  collar  as  his  good 
mother  at  home  could  fold  and  pin  about  his 
tawny  neck.  Ah !  but  this  is  peculiarly  the 
boys'  own  day;  this  is  the  great  harvest  time 
for  huge  sheets  of  gingerbread,  small  beer,  and 
Sicily  oranges.  If  they  have  been  hoarding 
up  the  proceeds  of  woodchuck  skins,  and  the 
margins  accruing  from  sharp-sighted  traffic  in 
small  miscellanies,  for  months  past,  it  was  but 
to  this  most  worthy  end ;  they  kept  their  im- 
aginations at  white  heat  by  dwelling  on  the 
sweetened  luxuries  of  the  coming  Muster. 

The  regiment  —  as  any  military  man  will 
tell  you  —  is  broken  into  companies  ;  you  can 
see  the  several  captains,  short  and  tall,  stand- 
ing forth  all  the  way  down  the  line,  fixed  and 
rigid  under  the  load  of  their  holiday  responsi- 
bilities. Somewhere  among  them  stand  our 
Scotts  and  Taylors  that  are  to  be,  and  the 
whole  corps  of  our  Worths  and  Wools  and  Mc- 
Clellans.  They  know  it,  and  the  county  round 
about  knows  it ;  and  peace  is  therefore  secure. 
But  the  pied  uniforms  impart  a  mosaic  appear- 
ance to  the  field,  that  could  not  otherwise  be 


THE   COUNTRY  MUSTER.  189 

so  skilfully  produced  by  any  device  of  mortal 
man.  Some  of  the  companies  are  clad  in 
true-blue  from  top  to  toe,  buttoned  up  all  tight 
and  right;  while  their  neighbors  wear  black 
swallow-tails  over  ample  seats  of  white,  whose 
natural  extensions  flap  their  folds  in  the  wind 
all  the  way  down  their  legs.  Artillery-men 
carry  on  their  heads  great,  heavy,  bell-shaped 
hats  of  leather,  surmounted  with  a  yellow  stub 
of  a  pompion ;  and  over  each  man's  two 
shoulders  creep  a  pair  of  yellow  woollen  cater- 
pillars, possibly  denoting  that  "  in  hoc  signo  " 
they  are  bound  to  fire  as  good  guns,  and  as 
loud,  as  the  best  of  them.  Every  captain 
wears  a  monster  chapeau,  that  unfortunately 
half  swamps  the  eyes  of  the  little  fellows,  and 
diminishes  to  that  extent  their  native  expres- 
sion ;  while  a  red  sash  either  encircles  the 
waist  of  the  slim  ones,  or  makes  an  indented 
equatorial  line  around  the  abdomen  of  the  cor- 
pulent. When  the  proper  field  officer,  stiffen- 
ing his  legs  in  the  stirrups,  orders  them  to 
"  march,"  such  a  lifting  of  long  legs  and  such 
a  stretching  of  short  ones,  for  some  three  or 
four  paces  forward,  is  not  to  be  seen  and  en- 
joyed among  the  grenadiers  of  old  Europe,  or 
the  chasseurs  of  modern  Africa  either.  Then 
they  face  about  again,  and  march  back  to  their 


190  HOMESPUN. 

lines  with  all  the  satisfaction  of  commanders 
just  returned  from  victorious  war.  The  cap- 
tains are  the  "  representative  men  "  of  their 
companies ;  "  ex  uno  disce  omnes." 

In  all  these  rural  regiments  there  are  two  ele- 
ments,—  the  volunteers  and  the  militia.  The 
latter  used  to  be  honored  with  the  patriotic 
title  of  "  mi-lish."  It  was  the  glory  and 
boast  of  these  "  regulars "  that  they  trained 
but  twice  a  year,  paid  their  fines  when  they 
preferred  to  do  that,  and  uniformed  themselves 
after  rules  and  patterns  the  most  discordant 
and  diverse.  Some  with  light  trousers,  and 
some  with  dark ;  now  and  then  one  in  his 
shirt  sleeves  —  his  family  coat  of  arms ;  and, 
here  and  there,  one  in  a  very  wide-brim  straw 
hat.  All  styles  of  toggery,  —  hats,  caps,  and 
straws;  jackets,  swallow-tails,  and  frocks;  six- 
footers  and  lilliputians ;  men  with  the  lean  and 
hungry  look  of  Cassius,  and  men  with  the 
proportions  of  our  ancient  friend  Falstaff; 
hirsute  and  shaven  ;  shouldering  rusty  fowling- 
pieces  and  little  stumpy  rifles ;  brandishing 
bayonets  and  drilling  with  hickory-sticks  ;  — 
all  a  medley  of  men,  arms,  and  clothing,  that 
would  have  divided  public  admiration  with  the 
ill-assorted  heroes  of  Coventry. 

Such  the  field.     A  loosely  linked  chain 


THE   COUNTRY  MUSTER.  191 

of  versi-colored  parts,  stretched  like  a  huge 
serpent  along  the  ground.  At  the  head,  a 
corps  of  drummers  and  fifers,  commanded  by 
a  musically-given  major,  who  cuts  off  their 
tunes  with  a  professional  twinkle  of  his  sword- 
blade.  When  the  drums  begin  their  roll,  after 
the  routine  of  regimental  drill  is  over,  the  vast 
encampment  wakes  up  from  centre  to  circum- 
ference. All  the  boys  make  a  rush  for  the 
music,  and  all  the  sentries  straddle  across  the 
enclosure  at  the  top  speed  of  a  walk,  to  head 
them  off  or  die  in  the  attempt.  The  girls  and 
the  mothers  testify  their  martial  spirit  by  a 
new  flash  of  the  eye  and  flush  of  the  cheek, 
and  involuntarily  keep  time  with  the  beat  of 
the  drum-sticks.  The  staid  family  beasts 
standing  round  prick  up  their  ears,  many  of 
them  recognizing  the  very  same  music  that 
was  drummed  out  in  that  very  same  place, 
years  ago,  in  their  coltish  youthfulness.  The 
din  around  the  refreshment  booths  is  for  a  few 
moments  hushed,  and  the  laughter  of  the  sons 
of  Ham  temporarily  gives  way  to  the  only  en- 
joyment which  can  claim  successful  competi- 
tion. 

Now  they  form  in  sections,  some  of  the 
ranks  so  crooked  that  no  military  genius  could 
ever  hope  to  make  them  stand  still.  The 


192  HOMESPUN. 

Colonel  is  at  the  head  of  the  column,  with 
sword  poised  over  his  shoulder ;  and  his  staff 
take  subordinate  positions,  according  to  the 
rigid  forms  of  military  law.  "  Forward  — 
march  !  "  How  the  order  rings  far  down  over 
the  heads  of  the  phalanx  in  arms!  It  is 
caught  up  by  all  the  big  captains  and  the 
little  captains,  and  whole  lines  of  legs  are 
simultaneously  stretched  to  measure  a  two- 
foot  pace,  according  to  the  local  manual. 
The  fifes  set  up  their  scream.  The  snare 
drums  roll  long  waves  of  music  down  *the 
column.  The  bass  drums  come  thumping 
in  with  their  swelling  musical  emphasis.  And 
away  they  start  on  a  proud  expedition  across 
the  rolling  plain.  The  heart  of  the  com- 
mander swells  and  bumps  under  his  padded 
coat,  and  he  puts  his  horse  through  a  process 
of  showy  caracoling  that  both  displays  his  own 
figure  and  delights  an  assembly  already  pre- 
disposed to  admiration.  How  many  a  blush- 
ing girl  at  the  rail-fence  secretly  wishes  she 
could  see  her  chosen  one  display  himself  to 
the  multitude  after  a  fashion  like  that !  Ho\v 
many  a  hard-working  mother,  fresh  from  the 
butter-tray  and  the  cheese-press,  thinks  that  her 
son  on  that  horse  would  surely  look  "the 
foremost  man  of  all  the  world  " !  The  crowds 


THE   COUNTRY  MUSTER.  193 

collect  all  along  the  lines,  as  they  pass,  in- 
spired by  the  music  that  comes  on  with  its 
rolling  and  screaming  crescendo. 

Nothing  could  be  grander,  either,  in  a  small, 
human  way,  than  the  sight  of  those  brilliant 
uniforms  a-straddle  of  those  richly  caparisoned 
horses  !  I  do  not  believe  the  armorers  of  the 
Middle-Ages  ever  set  their  iron  dinner-pots  on 
the  skulls  of  Knights-errant  one  half  so  royally 
as  our  Colonel  and  his  suite  wear  their  heavy 
chapeaus  of  plush  and  plume ;  or  that  glaives 
and  gauntlets  of  the  days  of  romance  and 
general  tomfoolery  ever  surpassed  those  bright 
yellow  buckskins  that  come  half  the  way  down 
the  military  arm.  And  the  gilt  bars  across  the 
breast,  like  a  Venetian  blind !  the  gilded  epau- 
lettes, with  their  trembling  tendrils,  on  each 
shoulder!  and  the  flowing  sash,  flowing  plume, 
and  flowing  mane  and  tail  of  the  horse  of  the 
commander ! 

To  describe  the  "sham-fight"  with  which 
the  day's  exercises  wind  up,  would  require  a 
pen  like  Homer's,  (if  he  ever  used  such  a  thing,) 
so  many  are  the  heroes  with  portraits  to  be 
painted,  and  so  stirring  is  the  encounter  be- 
tween artillery  and  stump  rifles  and  hickory 
sticks.  The  plain  soon  becomes  a  bank  of 
smoke-clouds,  which  nothing  but  the  return  of 

13 


194  HOMESPUN. 

welcome  peace  and  sunrise  can  dissipate.  Out 
of  this  blank-cartridge  engagement  the  officers 
always  manage  to  escape  without  wounds,  and 
are  found  sitting  on  horses  as  sound  of  wind 
and  as  strongly  inclined  to  repose  as  ever. 
The  surgeon  pays  no  sort  of  attention  to  his 
duties  on  the  field;  from  which  fact  the  af- 
frighted females  infer  that  none  are  wounded, 
let  the  dead  number  what  they  will. 

Finally,  the  whole  regiment  is  skilfully 
drawn  up  in  the  form  of  a  hollow  square, 
shutting  in  its  officers  with  the  chaplain  much 
as  cows  are  yarded  in  the  country ;  and,  when 
all  is  still,  the  "  God  of  battles  "  is  solemnly 
invoked  on  behalf  of  this  yearly  muster  of  in- 
offensive armed  men  ;  and  then  the  closed  wings 
unfold  to  let  the  cooped  leaders  out  again. 

The  regiment  is  somehow  got  back,  by  haw- 
ing and  geeing,  into  line,  —  the  drums  are 
briskly  beaten  a  little  while  longer,  —  the  Colo- 
nel  takes  another  ride  up  and  down  the  length 
of  the  rather  serpentine  column,  —  and,  at  last, 
from  his  seat  in  the  saddle,  the  order  is  given 
to  dismiss,  and  the  companies  march  off  each 
to  its  own  rendezvous,  firing  a  mild  salute  at 
the  approaching  sunset.  And  men  and  boys, 
women  and  girls,  white,  black,  and  yellow,  re- 
luctantly prepare  to  go  home,  and  to  bed  as 
quick  as  they  can  get  there. 


THE   COUNTRY  MUSTER. 


195 


This  is  the  annual  "  training "  of  thirty 
years  ago.  We  have  passed  through  serious 
experiences  since,  in  which  the  raw  troops  of 
the  country  pastures  have  nobly  vindicated  the 
fame  of  their  Revolutionary  ancestry  before  the 
country  and  the  world. 


THE  COUNTY  FAIR. 

A  MILD,  hazy,  dreamy  day  in  early  Octo- 
ber.    The  place  —  the  shire-town  of  the 
County,  where  the  Courts  are  held.     The  hour 
—  a  very  early  one  in  the  morning. 

Cattle  have  been  coming  in,  in  droves,  for 
some  time,  hurried  forward  by  men  in  wagons 
and  boys  on  foot  who  are  dressed  for  the  stir- 
ring events  of  the  day.  The  tavern-doors  are 
opened,  and  the  landlords  are  out  in  their  shirt- 
sleeves, sweeping  the  steps  and  the  ground  just 
before  the  windows.  People  are  slowly  and 
one  by  one  awaking  to  the  dawn  and  its  new 
demands,  up  and  down  the  village  street.  Se- 
lect herds  of  stock  straggle  along  through  the 
town,  from  time  to  time,  and  file  off  to  the 
grounds  just  behind,  where  they  go  into  such 
quarters  as  may  have  been  designated  by  the 
proper  committees. 

Presently  a  wagon,  or  two,  rolls  leisurely 
along,  bringing  a  load  of  handsome  poultry  in 
its  capacious  body,  —  coops  of  geese,  ducks, 


THE   COUNTY  FAIR.  197 

and  hens  of  every  known  blood,  breed,  and 
variety-  A  colt  comes  whinnying  at  the  foot 
of  her  dam,  both  of  them  to  add  to  the  day's 
attractions  in  the  list  of  live-stock. 

There  is  a  sweet  rural  fragrance  everywhere. 
You  can  even  smell  new-mown  hay,  in  imagi- 
nation, with  the  sight  of  the  strings  of  jogging 
oxen  and  the  sound  of  the  herds  of  lowing  cows. 
The  sun  comes  over  the  street,  at  last,  and  the 
whole  town  —  grass,  trees,  and  houses  —  is 
steeped  in  the  yellow  glory  of  an  autumnal 
morning. 

By  eight  o'clock  the  crowds  begin  to  gather 
everywhere.  First,  they  group  in  little  knots 
on  the  corners,  and  along  down  the  sides  of  the 
street ;  and  afterwards  they  get  mixed  up  in  a 
homogeneous  mass.  The  chief  centre  of  all 
attraction  in  the  village  is  the  town-house, 
where  are  to  be  seen  the  various  articles  of 
female  ingenuity  and  industry,  and  all  the  un- 
told products  of  flower  and  kitchen  gardens  ; 
likewise,  tempting  specimens  of  bakery,  of 
butter  and  cheese,  and  of  all  those  other  creat- 
ure comforts  that  impart  such  a  rich  creami- 
ness  to  the  life  of  the  generous  farmer. 

The  one  other  point  of  attraction,  to  divide 
the  honors  of  the  day  with  the  attention  of  the 
thousand  spectators,  is  the  "  Show- Grounds." 


198  HOMESPUN. 

To  the  real  lover  of  rural  sights  and  sounds, 
with  an  imagination  to  be  inflamed  and  a  sym- 
pathy to  be  excited  by  such  things,  this  is  the 
very  place  to  which  his  feet  turn  at  an  early 
hour  in  the  morning. 

Pens  are  constructed  of  rough  boards,  rang- 
ing over  an  area  of  several  acres.  Tickets  are 
tacked  upon  them,  inscribed  with  the  names 
of  those  who  own  the  contents.  You  begin 
at  the  head  of  the  row  with  some  fine  calves, 
blating  in  your  face  and  eyes  as  if  they  mistook 
you  for  a  relative  long  absent.  Next  comes  a 
pen  of  handsome  red  cows  ;  then  brindle  ;  then 
clear  red-and -white,  grade  cows,  that  are  hand- 
some enough  to  be  of  full  blood ;  then  bulls ; 
then  more  cows;  more  calves;  cows  —  cows 
—  cows  again,  one,  two,  and  three  in  a  pen  ; 
pretty  heifers,  as  pretty  as  ever  graced  a  new 
name  or  a  new  cedar  milk-pail;  then  sheep, — 
Leicester,  Cotswolds,  Southdown,  and  Merino, 
in  various  strains  of  crossing. 

The  sheep  huddle  timidly  into  the  further 
corners  of  their  pens,  and  look  out  through  the 
crevices  as  if  they  wanted  to  ask  the  Commit- 
tee when  this  tiresome  pen-performance  would 
be  over.  Their  white  and  downy  wool  catches 
the  eye  for  a  long  row  of  piney  divisions  ;  and 
then  succeeds  the  department  of  swine.  Our 


THE   COUNTY  FAIR.  199 

farmer  friends  believe  in  pork,  even  as,  at  the 
South,  they  return  ever  to  their  bacon.  With 
a  fair  proportion  of  pork,  cabbage,  potatoes, 
and  beans,  they  would  get  through  the  hardest 
winter,  or  the  longest  year,  with  almost  the  lux- 
urious content  of  an  early  Roman  Emperor ; 
even  old  Heliogabalus  could  not  have  prided 
himself  more  loftily  on  his  turbot  and  peacock 
sauce.  The  Hog  used  to  be  the  guardian  spirit 
of  the  New  England  farm,  —  so  it  might  have 
been  contended ;  for  the  population  certainly 
worshipped  him  in  all  forms  and  on  all  occa- 
sions. The  farmer  could  scarcely  seat  himself 
at  his  table  without  finding  his  old  swine-friend 
there  before  him.  We  have  changed  that  a 
little  now,  but  not  altogether ;  as  the  principles 
of  physiology  are  more  widely  spread  and  be- 
come better  understood,  we  may  hope,  all  of 
us,  to  "  return  to  our  muttons." 

But  Piggy  stands  up  and  lies  down  in  these 
pens  at  the  Show,  knee-deep  in  nice,  clean 
straw,  studying  human  nature  by  the  help  of 
that  inquisitive  little  eye  as  it  throngs  past,  and 
sometimes  seeming  perplexed  —  and  with  rea- 
son —  to  settle  it  whether  himself  or  those  who 
stir  him  up  so  unceasingly  may  be  charged 
with  the  more  genuine  hoggishness.  Strange 
as  it  is,  everybody  looks  over  the  pens  at  the 


200  HOMESPUN. 

swine  ;  and  all  the  little  boys  of  the  country 
peep  through  the  cracks  at  the  white  runts  of 
pigs  trying  to  hide  in  the  straw,  and  squeak  at 
them  in  mean  and  mimicking  derision. 

There  is  a  ploughing-match  on  an  open  plain 
hard  by,  which  the  sturdy  young  farmers  attend 
in  numbers ;  for  it  is  the  plough  that  ushered 
in  all  the  triumphs  and  rewards  of  the  modern 
systems  of  agriculture.  Fine  yokes  of  oxen, 
clear  red,  descendants  of  the  elegant  creatures 
that  hail  from  old  Devonshire,  stand  about  on 
the  outer  limits,  and  the  Committee  are  exam- 
ining their  good  points  with  due  care  and  close- 
ness. Then  the  few  horses  that  are  brought 
here  are  held  all  the  while  by  grooms,  and  men 
pass  along  from  one  to  the  other,  "talking 
horse  "  with  more  or  less  confidence,  according 
to  their  tastes.  The  neighing  and  whinnying 
increases  the  confusion  of  sounds,  and,  mingled 
with  the  lowing  of  cattle  and  the  bleating  of 
sheep,  brings  out  the  spirit  of  rusticity  to  the 
utmost ;  one  can  realize,  on  the  spot,  the  pret- 
tiest rural  picture  ever  sketched  in  English 
poetry. 

There  is  general  bustle,  very  soon ;  the  sev- 
eral Committees,  with  ribbons  flying  from  their 
button-holes,  are  moving  briskly  from  pen  to 
pen,  paper  and  pencil  in  hand,  getting  ready 


THE   COUNTY  FAIR.  201 

their  reports  and  awards.  The  farmers  have 
now  brought  their  good  wives  and  buxom 
daughters  upon  the  ground,  and  they  are  rang- 
ing up  and  down  the  rows  of  enclosures  and 
scanning  with  genuine  interest  every  specimen 
of  stock  they  contain.  Do  you  suppose  a 
bright  country  girl  has  not  as  quick  an  eye  for 
a  promising  heifer,  or  a  motherly  milker,  as  she 
has  for  the  sprucest  young  fellow  who  throws 
"  sheep's-eyes "  at  her  in  meeting,  and  then 
comes  to  "  sit  up  "  with  her  of  a  Sunday  even- 
ing ?  —  or  that,  like  the  superb  Europa  herself, 
she  may  not  regard  the  points  of  a  noble  bull 
with  swelling  admiration,  and  wish  that  a 
strain  of  that  high  blood  were  infused  into  the 
herd  of  milkers  in  her  own  father's  yard  ?  Our 
fair  English  ladies  are  at  home  just  there  ;  it 
was  left  for  latter-day  Yankees  to  touch  a  point 
of  fastidiousness  that  lies  a  good  way  out  of 
the  reach  of  refinement  itself. 

The  court-house,  up-stairs  and  down,  is 
crammed  with  the  details  of  this  annual  dis- 
play. Here  centre  mainly  the  industry  and 
interests  of  the  domestic  department.  Here 
you  can  stroll  about  at  your  leisure,  jostled,  of 
course,  and  jammed  as  you  go,  and  inspect  the 
handiwork  of  the  wives  and  the  daughters.  It 
is  spread  out  over  tables  and  benches,  arranged 


202  HOMESPUN. 

under  glass  coverings,  hung  against  the  walls, 
piled  upon  shelves,  and  suspended  from  the 
ceiling.  It  beautifies  and  enriches  the  whole 
place.  If  the  show-grounds  offer  the  attrac- 
tions of  profits  to  the  eye  of  the  observer,  the 
hall  and  other  rooms  crowd  the  brain  with  sug- 
gestions of  comfort,  and  plenty,  and  domestic 
luxury.  All  devices  possible  to  execute  in  em- 
broidery attract  and  delight  the  sight.  Won- 
ders of  industrious  ingenuity  in  the  bed-quilt 
line  hang,  like  choicest  domestic  tapestry,  about 
the  different  rooms.  Socks  and  stockings,  soft 
enough  to  have  been  woven  from  the  Golden 
Fleece,  are  displayed  at  several  points  of  at- 
traction ;  and  mittens,  though  not  of  the  sort 
sometimes  given  by  the  girls,  are  on  exhibition 
along  with  them.  Butter  and  cheese,  too,  in  the 
dairy  department,  arranged  around  so  tempt- 
ingly as  that  one  can  scarcely  help  slicing  the 
neighboring  loaves  and  spreading  them  thick, 
on  the  spot. 

Soon  after  noon,  when  the  appetites  of  the 
thousand  or  more  comers  have  had  a  chance  to 
get  their  edge  a  little  taken  oft',  the  meeting- 
house —  or  church  —  begins  to  fill  up  with  an 
expectant  assembly.  The  influential  ladies  of 
the  town  are  observed  to  show  the  way  to  the 
rest,  and  presently  the  people  begin  to  flock  in. 


THE   COUNTY  FAIR.  203 

For  Esquire  Somebody,  one  of  the  greatest 
lawyers  (not  farmers)  of  the  county,  is  going  to 
address  the  committees  and  assembled  citizens, 
on  the  topic  which  seems  to  engross  the  atten- 
tion of  all,  that  day.  The  house  once  fairly 
full,  the  orator,  in  personal  charge  of  still 
another  Committee,  traverses  the  central  aisle 
and  climbs  the  stairs  to  the  pulpit-box,  whence 
he  very  soon  proceeds  to  fulminate  the  thun- 
ders of  his  knowledge,  and  to  flash  the  light- 
nings of  his  wit — a  little  rusty  —  upon  the 
approving  auditory  below.  Possibly,  in  imag- 
ination, he  tries  to  realize  what  it  would  cost 
him,  in  vital  resources,  to  exchange  his  own 
profession  for  that  of  the  gentleman  whose 
place  this  regularly  is.  At  all  events,  he  gives 
them  a  good  Address,  in  the  course  of  which 
ploughs  and  furrows,  rhetoric  and  assertion, 
flattery  and  flummery,  —  considered  only  from 
the  agricultural  point,  of  course,  —  are  adroitly 
mixed  up.  No  matter,  however,  if  "  the  la- 
dies "  are  well  pleased  ;  and  though  he  may 
know  no  more  of  agriculture  practically  than 
is  contained  in  the  term  "  boundary  fence,'* 
yet  if  he  do  but  praise  the  butter  and  cheese 
over  at  the  hall,  and  talk  beautifully  on  the  in- 
fluence of  woman,  with  a  little  something  about 
"  fair  hands  "  and  "  own  vine  and  fig-tree,"  the 


204  HOMESPUN. 

harangue  is  esteemed  a  success,  and  the  dig- 
nity of  Agriculture  is  once  more  happily  vindi- 
cated. 

After  this  discourse,  the  reports  of  the  vari- 
ous Committees  are  heard ;  and  then  it  is,  the 
heart  of  many  a  young  farmer  swells  with  de- 
served pride,  to  have  it  proclaimed  to  all  the 
country  round  that  he  can  beat  the  best  of  them 
at  raising  stock,  or  fattening  swine,  or  guiding 
the  plough  across  an  even  piece  of  greensward. 
Or  the  matrons  grow  a  little  red  in  the  face,  at 
hearing  —  exactly  as  they  wished  to  —  that 
their  particular  lot  of  butter  and  cheese  bears 
off  the  year's  palm ;  or  the  girls  vainly  try  to 
hide  their  heads,  to  learn,  in  the  presence  of 
that  congregation,  that  they  have  earned  public 
praise  and  corresponding  prizes  for  making 
bread  that  is  as  light  as  a  sponge,  knitted  the 
evenest  and  softest  stockings,  and  patched  the 
prettiest  bed-quilts.  A  vast  deal  of  whispering 
and  tittering  may  be  heard  over  the  church 
while  this  department  of  the  prize-reading  goes 
on  ;  and,  as  for  the  disappointed  ones,  leave 
them  alone  to  find  good  reasons  enough,  and 
plenty  of  them,  for  their  defeat  in  this  contest, 
which,  happily,  renders  them  none  the  less  ea- 
ger for  another  year's  trial. 

The  usual  resolutions  are  read  and  passed ; 


THE  COUNTY  FAIR.  205 

new  committees  are  appointed  for  directing 
the  next  year's  proceedings;  and  the  assem- 
blage disperses  amid  a  hum  of  talk  and  general 
good  humor.  And  then,  one  by  one,  parties 
begin  to  make  up  for  home.  It  may  be  that 
they  have  come  ten,  twenty,  or  even  more  miles 
to  this  festival;  they  ride  off  gayly,  satisfied 
with  the  pleasures  and  profits  of  the  day,  eon- 
tent  if  they  reach  their  homes  in  the  damp  cool- 
ness of  a  lovely  autumn  evening. 

The  remainder  of  the  afternoon  is  devoted 
to  the  sale  of  such  cattle  and  other  stock  as 
their  owners  are  willing  to  dispose  of,  and  to 
the  gathering  up  of  property  previous  to  get- 
ting it  back  to  the  farms  on  which  it  belongs. 
The  scenes  on  the  show-grounds  are  then  ex- 
tremely interesting.  More  of  the  real  farmer 
feeling  breaks  out,  as  if  all  were  met  at  an  in- 
formal meeting;  and  the  swapping  and  jockey- 
ing make  the  occasion  as  lively  as  any  of  the 
Fair  Days  in  the  rural  districts  of  Old  Eng- 
land. Not  until  long  after  the  usual  hour  at 
night  is  the  town  street  still  again,  parties  being 
given  at  the  dwellings  of  some  of  the  leading 
citizens,  and  the  taverns  unable  to  be  quiet, 
with  their  company,  till  every  item  of  the  day's 
doings  has  been  thoroughly  discussed. 


THE  COUNTRY  MINISTER. 

THEY  have  none  of  the  fine  clergymen  to 
be  found  in  novels,  among  the  hard  hills 
of  New  England.  Such  poetry  as  has  been 
thrown  around  the  calling  in  other  countries 
does  not  belong  to  it  there.  It  is,  instead,  the 
most  actual  and  outright  prose  possible. 

Times  have  changed  about  very  strangely 
since  the  days  of  our  fathers,  —  that  we  know ; 
and,  along  with  the  times,  the  relations  be- 
tween pastor  and  people  also.  A  genial  and  fa- 
cetious clergyman  of  Massachusetts  remarked, 
in  the  course  of  a  telling  speech  at  a  horse- 
show,  that  the  horse  was  a  truly  noble  animal, 
and  a  nice  piece  of  property  for  a  minister  ;  for 
he  verily  believed  the  time  was  close  at  hand 
when  it  would  be  necessary  for  ministers  to 
settle  on  horseback ! 

The  old-fashion,  old-school,  patriarchal,  pos- 
itive, dogmatic,  yet  benevolent  ministers  who 
used  to  maintain  their  fixed  positions  from  one 
end  of  the  land  to  the  other,  are  nearly  all 


THE   COUNTRY  MINISTER.  207 

passed  away  ;  and  none  come  forward  to  sup- 
ply their  places,  simply  because  the  condition 
of  society  requires  a  new  order  of  men.  These 
were  stern  men  and  godly ;  puritan  and  primi- 
tive ;  ascetic  in  their  habits  and  forbidding  in 
their  mien,  yet  as  playful  as  kittens  at  heart, 
praying  to  God  morning  and  evening  that  they 
might  be  kept  innocent  of  all  guile.  They 
were  established,  with  their  families,  on  broad 
and  fertile  acres,  —  and  still,  the  acres  were  as 
likely  to  prove  sterile  as  fertile.  They  dom- 
iciled in  huge  rectangular  houses,  with  low 
ceilings  and  rambling  rooms  ;  sat  at  boards 
laden  with  substantial  cheer,  and  garnished 
with  goodly  rows  of  children ;  and  kept  their 
horse  apiece,  and  their  cow  or  two,  and  their 
oxen  sometimes,  —  a  yoke  or  so,  —  with  whose 
patient  help  they  ploughed  their  stubborn  glebe 
in  the  springs. 

Theirs  was  a  day  and  generation  by  itself. 
They  were  the  Popes  of  their  isolated  parishes, 
—  the  Clements  and  Hildebrands  of  all  the 
country  round.  Beside  the  doctor  and  the 
lawyer  of  the  place,  no  one  knew  so  much  as 
"  our  minister."  Indeed,  not  even  they  were  at 
all  times  admitted  to  an  equality  in  the  popu- 
lar esteem  with  himself.  The  little  girls  and 
boys  were  taught  to  fear  his  frown,  and  to  feel 


208  HOMESPUN. 

eternally  grateful  for  so  much  as  a  ray  of  his 
benignant,  but  strictly  conscientious,  smile. 
When  he  walked  down  the  road  with  that  sol- 
emn tread,  the  females  would  hurry  to  the  front 
windows  and  summon  all'  within  their  hearing 
to  come  and  see  the  minister  go  by.  They 
seemed  to  believe  the  very  atmosphere  around 
him  was  a  sort  of  "  glory."  Even  the  earth  on 
which  he  left  the  print  of  his  substantial  soles 
they  esteemed  half  sacred  by  reason  of  his 
tread.  What  he  divided  of  the  Word  among 
them  on  the  Sabbaths,  they  accepted  with 
thanks  and  without  the  thought  of  venturing  a 
question.  His  Scripture  commentaries  were 
received  as  final,  and  quite  beyond  the  disturb- 
ance of  human  criticism.  His  definition  of  the 
doctrines  he  so  stoutly  enforced  was  the  begin- 
ning and  end  of  true  theology,  —  the  Alpha 
and  Omega  of  biblical  truth. 

Outside  of  the  old  Romish  Church  herself,  it 
would  be  difficult  to  find  an  individual  in  any 
age,  who  so  perfectly  personated,  by  his  influ- 
ence and  force  of  character,  the  almost  unlim- 
ited power  of  its  priests.  It  was  genuine  The- 
ocracy. While  eschewing  and  combatting,  and 
denouncing  and  defying  that  Church,  with  all 
the  rigor,  and  aroused  energy,  and  passion  of 
his  rugged  nature,  he  at  the  same  time,  and  in 


THE  COUNTRY  MINISTER.  209 

his  own  way,  illustrated  most  strangely  the 
powers  and  peculiarities  against  which  he  was 
so  fervently  praying  and  contending. 

Such  were  the  ministers  of  the  Oldtime. 
They  had  the  spirit  of  fight  in  them,  and  plenty 
of  it.  They  were  bred  up  to  make  a  show  of 
pluck,  as  well  in  the  pulpit  as  out ;  and  could 
flourish  a  sword,  or  handle  a  musket,  or  lead  a 
forlorn  hope,  —  some  of  them,  —  as  well  as 
many  more  who  cut  such  figures  on  the  page 
of  history.  They  took  their  stand,  whether  on 
religion  or  politics,  and  vigorously  defended  it. 
Not  a  foot  was  yielded  to  the  assaulting  en- 
emy, whether  human  or  satanic;  they  would 
sooner  throw  inkstands  in  return,  as  did  un- 
yielding Luther.  The  last  thing  they  would 
do  was  give  quarter;  that  was  a  favor  they 
neither  asked  nor  accepted  for  themselves,  but 
fought  until  fighting  was  of  no  further  use,  one 
party  only  being  left  for  future  operations.  In 
such  habits  of  mind,  it  is  true  that  the  gentler 
and  more  Christlike  qualities  of  the  Soul  were 
not  always  called  out ;  but  the  work  to  be  done 
—  rough  pioneer  work  as  it  was  —  was  not  of 
the  sort  for  sentimentalists  to  take  in  hand,  or 
for  lily-white  rhapsodists  and  rhetoricians,  with 
smoothly  ironed  bands  beneath  their  chins. 
These  brave  and  sturdy  old  ministers,  with 
u 


210  HOMESPUN. 

their  hearts  of  oak,  had  rough  work  before 
them  ;  and  they  did  it  thoroughly  and  well.- 

But  a  race  like  that  passed  away  with  the 
times  that  demanded  its  services.  A  new  race 
trode  in  its  footsteps,  inheriting  all  its  vigorous 
and  independent  qualities  of  character,  fully  as 
dogmatic  in  its  opinions  and  as  deeply  rooted 
in  its  prejudices,  yet  with  a  degree  of  flexible 
adaptiveness,  yielding  to  the  changing  temper 
and  custom  of  the  times,  though  claiming  just 
the  same  show  of  veneration  from  its  entire 
parishes,  and  'seeking  to  impose  the  same  ser- 
vile fear  on  all  the  little  boys  and  girls  that 
came  in  its  way. 

And  still  another,  and  another  class  has  fol- 
lowed ;  in  some  respects  mellowing,  and.  as  it 
were,  humanizing  with  each  advance,  but  in 
its  main  qualities  of  character  copying  with  a 
rigid  spirit  of  veneration  the  very  traits,  speech, 
and  manners  of  those  ancient  and  time-hon- 
ored men,  whose  names  are  engraven  more  en- 
duringly  than  in  brass. 

The  modern  New  England  minister  is  hardly 
the  minister,  or  the  man,  of  the  Old  School. 
While  he  lacks  —  and  knows  it  —  the  vigorous 
energy  of  the  latter,  and  is  wanting  in  that 
fearless  independence  which  never  quailed  in 
an  emergency,  he  nevertheless  seeks  to  com- 


THE   COUNTRY  MINISTER.  211 

pensate  for  the  loss  by  mechanical  conformity 
with  a  few  antiquated  manners  and  customs, 

—  such  as  pertain  to  the  cutting  of  his  hair, 
the  hue  and  tie  of  his  cravat,  the  shape  of  his 
boots,  the  solemn  deep-soundings  of  his  voice, 
and  perhaps  the  rigid  style  of  his  family  living. 
Many  a  man  will  keep  the  form,  though  the 
life  went  out  of  it  long  ago.     To  him  who  can 
penetrate  beneath  the  surface,  forms  have  al- 
most ceased  to  offer  any  meaning. 

But  all  country  ministers  are  not  to  be 

set  down  in  these  matters  upon  the  same  foot- 
ing. There  are  differences,  according  to  loca- 
tion. At  the  West,  customs  go  for  less  than 
almost  anywhere  else  ;  but  in  the  Eastern 
States,  and  in  New  England  especially,  they 
must  be  studied  in  connection  with  the  people 
and  the  prosperity  around  them.  There  are 
"  Sunnysides  "  and  "  Shadysides  "  everywhere 
among  the  valleys  of  New  England  ;  and 
within  the  walls  of  country  parsonages  — 
where,  indeed,  they  have  any  parsonages  at  all 

—  stories  are   yet  to  be  written,  —  tragedies, 
some  of  them,  —  that  will  hold  the  attention 
of  the  most  thoughtless  skater  over  the  surface 
of  print. 

Nowadays,  they  go  to  their  parishes  young, 

—  that  is,  as  soon  as  they  obtain  their  licenses 


212  HOMESPUN. 

at  the  Schools,  or  whenever  they  have  taken  to 
themselves  blooming  and  blessing  wives  as 
companions  on  the  journey.  They  first  preach 
a  few  times  in  a  place,  are  perhaps  liked,  learn 
how  much  was.  paid  the  last  minister,  and  close 
the  bargain  and  settle  down.  From  that  day 
forward,  themselves  and  their  youthful  wives 
become  public  property  ;  their  finest  sensibili- 
ties are  a  sort  of  highway  for  inconsiderate 
tongues  to  walk  and  wag  over.  They  give  a 
good  day's  study  to  the  quarters  which  the  par- 
ish has  provided  for  them,  get  acquainted  with 
the  deacons,  find  their  way  as  fast  as  they  can 
over  their  extended  parish,  hurry  together  their 
several  articles  of  household  economy,  and  at 
last  report  of  themselves,  and  try  actually  to 
feel,  that  they  are  settled. 

For  a  time,  how  lonely !  If  father  and 
mother  could  but  drop  in,  some  pleasant  after- 
noon, and  take  an  early  tea  with  them,  —  how 
much  sooner  those  strange  rooms,  with  their 
stranger  echoes,  would  seem  cheerful !  All 
faces  are  new  to  them.  They  cannot  yet  tell 
who  come  from  pure  friendliness,  and  who  just 
to  see  their  "  new  things."  Between  a  state 
of  half  sadness  and  one  of  joy,  their  hearts  are 
for  a  time  divided,  and  light  and  shadow  long 
alternate  across  their  path. 


THE  COUNTRY  MINISTER.  213 

Every  country  minister  has  peculiar  experi- 
ences ;  the  country  is  not  so  monotonous  in 
this  respect  as  many  persons  would  infer.  Va- 
rious in  various  localities,  they  are  essentially 
alike,  too,  or  at  least  essentially  related.  The 
deacons  in  one  town  are  not  likely  to  be  al- 
ways the  same  with  the  deacons  in  the  town 
adjoining.  The  social  temper  here  is  not  ne- 
cessarily the  same  with  the  social  temper  there. 
In  one  place,  the  people  are  perhaps  a  little 
inclined  to  social  gayety,  or  what  would  be 
esteemed  such  outside  their  own  bailiwick ;  in 
the  very  next  town  to  it,  the  public  face  may 
be  drawn  down  to  a  longitude  which  only 
skilful  navigators  can  take  the  measure  of. 

Generally,  the  minister  keeps  a  horse  ;  some- 
times a  cow ;  but  always  a  handful  of  hens. 
He  must  have  something  to  pet.  He  and  his 
wife  take  infinite  delight  with  their  poultry, 
and  so  do  the  little  ones,  especially  at  the  time 
of  the  Spring  hatchings.  The  cow  proves  her- 
self a  blessed  creature  for  the  little  folks,  and, 
in  fact,  more  than  half  keeps  the  family.  And 
they  are  all  so  fond  of  patient  "  mooley,"  too, 
and  love  to  see  the  white  streams  of  her  milk 
churning  into  the  pail  at  night,  standing  and 
patting  her  sides  while  she  solemnly  chews  her 
cud  and  contemplates  the  advantages  of  being 
the  minister ]s  cow  ! 


214  HOMESPUN. 

A  horse  is  hardly  so  common  a  piece  of 
property  among  country  ministers,  though  all 
of  them  would  like  well  enough  to  own  one. 
He  costs  more  money  than  the  cow,  in  the  first 
place  ;  and  unless  some  man  of  means  hap- 
pens to  be  kind  enough,  or  the  minister  him- 
self has  married  well  enough,  or  by  hook  and 
by  crook  laid  aside  enough,  after  teaching 
school  and  purchasing  his  library  with  the  pro- 
ceeds, to  buy  such  an  animal  outright,  —  his 
stall  in  the  barn  is  crammed  with  dried  corn- 
stalks in  winter,  and  contains  an  old  wheel- 
barrow and  a  rusty  stove  or  two  in  summer. 

Some  parishes  —  we  could  put  our  finger  on 
one  such,  at  this  moment  —  would  much  pre- 
fer not  to  have  their  minister  own  a  horse ;  it 
gives  him  too  wide  a  margin  for  operating  in- 
depently  of  them.  He  can  thus  reach  the  cars 
too  readily  to  satisfy  some  who  would  like  to 
domineer  over  even  his  means  of  locomotion. 
His  poor  wife  can  take  a  much-needed  airing 
across  the  country  with  too  little  trouble.  He 
will  himself  be  apt  to  spend  too  liberally  of  his 
time  on  the  road,  at  Ihe  harness-maker's,  in  the 
cheery  blacksmith's  shop,  and  calling  around 
on  brother  ministers  in  neighboring  parishes. 
To  whom,  if  not  to  his  own  people,  does  his 
time  belong  ?  Has  not  each  and  every  one  of 


THE   COUNTRY  MINISTER.  215 

them  an  interest  as  abiding  in  his  hour.?  and 
days  as  in  the  meeting-house  itself,  or  the  red 
school-house  at  the  fork  of  the  road  1  In  their 
unrelenting  estimate,  is  he  not  as  accountable 
to  them  for  the  way  he  spends  his  time  as  they 
are,  in  other  public  directions,  for  the  way  they 
spend  theirs  1 

To  write  two  long  sermons  each  week  is 
double  what  any  man  of  intellectual  gifts  and 
genuine  spiritual  attainments  ought  ever  to 
think  of  attempting.  Lectures  for  an  evening 
each  week  he  generally  appoints,  too ;  and  he 
is  expected  to  lend  his  presence  and  influence 
at  all  the  bees,  sociables,  and  society  meetings 
that,  during  the  winter  at  least,  divide  the  week 
into  two  unmistakable  halves.  If  a  single 
family  in  the  wide-spread  parish  chances  to  be 
even  once  overlooked  in  the  annual  visit  of  the 
minister,  he  is  very  sure  to  hear  of  it  in  a  strain 
of  emphasis  not  soon  forgotten.  The  people 
of  his  parish  are  not  so  delicately  organized  in 
the  region  of  their  sensibilities,  or  so  forbearing 
in  the  use  of  their  mother  tongue,  as  to  keep 
back  anything  of  that  sort  from  him.  If  he 
errs,  they  make  a  point  to  let  him  know  it ;  he 
is  not  to  think  he  was  invited  among  them  to 
point  out  their  errors  ;  the  diglto  monstrari  lies 
altogether  on  their  side. 


216  HOMESPUN. 

Little  enough  time,  therefore,  all  things  con- 
sidered, do  country  ministers  have  left  in  which 
to  cultivate  a  taste  for  books  and  general  liter- 
ature. In  a  good  many  up-country  parishes,  it 
is  esteemed  rather  effeminate  to  pay  much  at- 
tention to  letters,  and  discourses  that  are  guilty 
of  the  least  literary  finish  are  held  to  be  emas- 
culate and  ineffective.  The  people  not  only 
want  the  Word,  but  they  want  it  as  hard  and 
dry  as  a  navy  biscuit.  Neither  the  deacons 
nor  the  old  women  believe  in  mental  culture  ; 
they  ask  for  the  raw  staple  of  brains,  without 
any  fine  spinning  to  it.  To  confess  a  love  for 
the  poets,  those  masters  of  melody  and  divine 
philosophy,  is  to  betray  a  weakness  not  apt  to 
be  overlooked  in  estimating  the  soundness  of  a 
sermon.  There  are  parishes,  and  not  all  of 
them  so  remote,  either,  in  which  if  a  minister 
were  to  be  known  to  offer  a  quotation  from  a 
favorite  author,  even  giving  credit  as  he  pro- 
ceeds, a  woe  would  rest  heavily  on  his  local 
reputation  forever  after.  His  discourses  would 
never  again  be  entirely  his  own ;  he  would  be 
charged  with  borrowing  even  his  language  ; 
and  the  deacons  would  set  him  down  as  but  a 
copy  of  something,  or  somebody,  he  had  been 
indiscreet  enough  to  tell  them  about,  —  either 
a  book,  or  an  author,  they  cannot  clearly  com- 
prehend. 


THE   COUNTRY  MINISTER.  217 

In  the  family  of  the  country  minister, 

however,  may  often  be  found  — especially  if 
his  life  have  the  flavor  of  the  ancient  times  in 
it  —  some  of  that  sweetest  contentment  which 
comprises  about  all  there  is  of  earthly  happi- 
ness, and  which  never  fails  to  attract  the  ad- 
miring envy  of  all  who  behold  it.  A  genuinely 
happy  family  is  not  so  common  a  sight  in  these 
latter  days  as  that  people  do  not  stop  to  study 
the  phenomenon.  Around  the  cheerful  family 
table  sit  the  sons  and  daughters,  coming  for- 
ward to  be  ornaments  in  society,  and  chief  or- 
naments already  in  the  harmonious  household. 
Love  sits  at  the  bottom  and  the  top,  and  Love 
runs  all  the  way  through.  How  dutiful  —  how 
affectionate  —  how  obedient !  We  can  here 
realize  the  happy  figure  of  the  "  sitting  beneath 
one's  own  vine  and  fig-tree,"  and  lovely  indeed 
is  the  vision  to  eyes  unaccustomed  to  behold- 
ing it. 

Perhaps  the  city  clergyman  does  know  more, 
because  he  sees  more,  of  human  nature,  and 
of  the  human  heart  under  varied  and  strangely 
contrasting  circumstances,  —  but  the  country 
minister  is  drawn  nearest  to  Nature,  the  com- 
mon mother.  If  he  is  not  so  intellectual  as  his 
city  brother,  he  is  more  spiritual.  He  medi- 
tates his  discourses  in  the  pleasant  fields,  and 


218  HOMESPUN. 

out  upon  the  farm-lands  which  stretch  broad 
and  far  their  limits.  The  fresh  airs  of  the 
woods  and  ferny  pastures  should  drift  through 
his  sermons,  and  make  them  fragrant  and  re- 
viving to  all  who  hear  them  spoken.  And  the 
closeness  of  the  pastoral  relation  in  sickness, 
in  death,  in  baptism,  in  the  office  of  marriage, 
is  something  not  so  well  known  to  his  brethren 
in  the  cities,  who  lay  their  hands  upon  the 
throbbing  hearts  of  their  people  but  seldom. 
All  the  associations  of  country  life  are  calcu- 
lated to  make  the  offices  and  experiences  of 
ministers  settled  in  rural  parishes  distinct  from 
the  corresponding  offices  of  their  brethren  of 
the  large  towns.  The  unhappy  poet  of  Olney 
meant  volumes  more  than  he  could  have  read 
himself,  when  he  cast  the  well-known  phrase,  — 
"  God  made  the  country,  but  Man  made  the 
town." 

The  country  minister,  like  the  country  school- 
master—  his  congener,  is  of  necessity  a  trifle 
less  pliant  in  his  manners  than  his  municipal 
brother ;  and  one  reason  for  it  is,  there  is  so 
much  more  looking  than  doing,  so  much  more 
criticism  than  being,  all  around  him.  The  ar- 
gus  eyes  that  watch  him  from  Sunday  to  Sun- 
day, and  the  voluble  and  well-trained  tongues 
that  take  verbal  measure,  with  such  fearful  ac- 


THE   COUNTRY  MINISTER.'  219 

curacy,  of  whatever  he  says  and  does,  —  like 
rows  of  batteries  ever  ready  to  belch  their  fires 
upon  him,  —  compel  a  sort  of  constraint  in 
spite  of  himself.  Hence  his  stilted  ways,  and 
overshot  style  of  expression  ;  he  is  aware  of  it, 
and  secretly  laments  it,  —  but  his  fate  is  upon 
him  and  he  can  do  nothing.  He  rarely  un- 
bends, or  "  lets  himself  out,"  for  there  is  never 
an  occasion  for  him  to  do  it,  and  nobody  with 
whom  he  may.  Unconsciously  to  himself  he 
has  the  behavior  of  a  person  beset  with  spies, 
—  though  possibly  harmless  ones,  —  and  feels 
that  all  his  phrases  are  translated  with  as  much 
literalness,  and  into  as  true  polyglot,  as  those 
of  Holy  Writ  itself.  The  female  portion  of 
the  parish  are  inquisitive,  in  spite  of  their  efforts 
to  seem  otherwise ;  and  they  cannot  propose 
to  perform  kind  and  gentle  offices  for  the  min- 
ister's family,  without  betraying  the  instinct 
that  refuses  to  be  concealed.  They  have  so 
grown  into  the  habit  of  taking  toll  as  they  go 
along. 

Reviewing  the  whole  ground,  therefore, 

it  would  be  hard  to  say  that  the  condition  of 
the  minister  settled  in  the  country  is  just  the 
pleasantest  which  might  be  imagined  by  a 
young  licentiate.  Of  really  tough  and  tus- 
socky  obstacles  he  has  his  full  share  to  contend 


220  HOMESPUN. 

with.  In  every  conceivable  way  is  his  patience 
put  to  the  test.  So  many  little  trials  is  he  sum- 
moned to  endure,  and  endure  in  silence.  So 
much  gossi'p  —  so  much  envy  —  so  much  jeal- 
ousy in  respect  of  his  family  —  and  he  is  so 
often  headed  off  at  the  very  point  where  he 
should  have  been  helped,  —  his  place  some- 
times becomes  a  burden  which  he  cannot  carry, 
and  his  term  of  real  usefulness  comes  to  an 
end.  Finally,  and  worst  of  all,  there  is  the 
danger  of  a  young  man's  relapsing  into  the 
very  customs  he  so  positively  dislikes.  To  see 
fine  and  fresh  powers  slowly  coating  with  the 
palsying  gum  of  old  up-country  observances, 
prejudices,  and  whimsicalities,  —  to  behold  a 
young  man,  full  of  ardor  and  promise,  falling 
gradually  away  into  the  habit  of  insensibility 
and  actual  induration,  by  reason  simply  of 
some  lack,  or  else  of  the  positive  coarseness, 
of  those  among  whom  his  lot  is  cast,  —  is 
something  to  make  the  heart  feel  sad  indeed. 
To  be  sure,  not  all  country  parishes  are  with 
an  influence  like  this ;  yet  there  are  enough 
to  make  themselves  a  reproach  to  religion,  and 
their  ministers  practically  useless  by  becoming 
so  thoroughly  unhappy. 


THE  COUNTRY  DOCTOR. 

OLD  Dr.  Twogood  I  knew  very  well.  He 
was  the  sort  of  man  for  everybody  to 
know,  who  could.  Fond  of  a  story,  attached 
to  his  few  rows  of  well-used  books,  his  parish 
of  friends,  and  his  steady,  dock-tailed  mare,  I 
honestly  believe  no  man  ever  took  life,  as  life 
goes  with  us  all,  more  humorously,  comfort- 
ably, and  contentedly  than  he.  Like  the  min- 
ister, everybody  knew  him  well,  or,  like  the 
sign-post  on  Sundays,  everybody  consulted 
him.  Rotund,  red-faced,  and  ever  disposed  to 
be  jolly,  he  was  the  sample  for  lean  and  Cassius- 
like  patients  to  copy  after  so  far  as  they  could. 
They  needed  but  to  have  a  good  look  at  his 
happy  face,  to  give  the  right  turn  to  the  whole 
list  of  their  complaints.  There  might,  indeed, 
have  been  some  miraculous  element  in  it  all,  — 
like  the  touching  of  garment  hems  in  olden 
times,  or  the  going  down  into  healing  pools  to 
wash. 

I  think  there  are  few  men  so  placed  in  the 


222  HOMESPUN. 

social  arrangement,  and  especially  in  that  of 
the  country  neighborhood,  that  their  influence 
can  be  made  as  general  and  genial  as  that  of 
the  regular  physician.  The  family  doctor  is 
the  one  privileged  visitor.  He  has  the  key  to 
our  doors  and  hearts.  He  dispenses  a  great 
deal  more  healing  by  his  manner  than  by  his 
less  intelligible  prescriptions.  What  passes 
his  oracular  lips  often  works  better  service 
than  what  he  writes  down  in  abbreviated 
Latin.  The  country  physician,  in  the  nature 
of  things,  is  drawn  by  very  close  and  confiden- 
tial relations  to  his  patients.  He  has  a  work 
to  do  peculiarly  his  own.  He  is  emphatically 
a  "  family  man."  His  sympathies  are  all  more 
or  less  domestic,  and  all  his  aims  centre,  or 
appear  to  do  so,  in  Home. 

Scott  describes  one  of  these  human  benefac- 
tors in  the  "Chronicles  of  the  Canongate,"  in 
these  words :  —  "  There  is  no  creature  in  Scot- 
land that  works  harder,  and  is  more  poorly 
requited  than  the  country  doctor,  unless  per- 
haps it  may  be  his  horse.  Yet  the  horse  is,  and 
indeed  must  be,  hardy,  active,  and  indefatiga- 
ble, in  spite  of  a  rough  coat  and  indifferent  con- 
dition ;  and  so  you  will  often  find  in  his  master, 
under  a  blunt  exterior,  professional  skill  and 
enthusiasm,  intelligence,  humanity,  courage 
and  science." 


THE    COUNTRY  DOCTOR.  223 

While  practising  at  his  profession,  he  carries 
on  a  farm  as  well ;  generally  showing  as  fine 
fruits  and  as  large  vegetables  as  any  other 
cultivator  in  town,  and  keeping  the  most 
liberal  share  of  each  to  bestow  upon  his  friend, 
the  minister,  along  in  the  sunny  days  of  au- 
tumn. A  better  garden  than  Dr.  Twogood 
kept  and  dressed.  I  think  I  never  knew  nor 
saw.  There  were  no  vegetables,  whether  com- 
mon or  rare,  which  he  had  not  industriously 
laid  under  tribute  for  family  service,  through 
the  instrumentality  of  his  little  patch  of  land. 
He  hoed  and  grubbed  in  it  by  the  hour,  all  by 
himself,  —  planting  his  beans,  sowing  his  rad- 
ishes and  peas,  pulling  or  scraping  the  weeds, 
picking  bugs  most  patiently  from  his  cucum- 
ber vines,  and  stirring  the  soil  where  it  needed 
mellowing. 

I  never  left  off  envying  him  the  pleasure 
he  took  among  his  apple-trees,  in  that  pretty 
orchard  which  made  regular  avenues  across  the 
slope  back  of  his  house,  and  thence  down  into 
the  meadows.  In  that  spot  he  appeared  en- 
tirely happy.  It  was  to  me  a  convincing  illus- 
tration of  what  I  had  an  intuitive  knowledge 
of  before,  that  our  simplest  and  least  costly 
pleasures  are  worth  most  to  us,  and  that  the 
memory  of  them  abides  longest.  The  Doctor 


224  HOMESPUN. 

looked  to  me,  in  that  particular  spot,  like  the 
lord  of  the  land ;  or,  perhaps,  like  some  jolly 
poet  among  his  trees,  familiarizing  himself 
with  the  bent  of  their  disposition,  one  by 
one,  —  nodding  to  them  whenever  they  seemed 
to  nod,  —  passing  his  hands  in  a  friendly  way 
up  and  down  their  stems,  —  pulling  over  their 
boughs  toward  him,  —  and  plunging  his  eyes 
into  the  dense  banks  of  green  with  which  they 
made  the  landscape  beautiful.  The  whole  of  it 
suggested  to  me  the  picture  of  the  true  life ;  it 
seemed  so  simple,  so  sweet,  and  so  wholesome. 
If  a  man  should  run  in  to  ask  the  Doctor  to 
come  over  and  see  his  wife  just  as  quick  as  he 
could,  or  to  take  in  hand  one  of  his  children 
who  had  been  stuffing  with  under-ripe  cherries, 
or  currants,  or  apples,  he  would  very  likely 
find  him  —  if  at  all  —  in  a  lazy  posture  in  his 
great  office-chair,  feet  piled  upon  the  table 
or  braced  against  the  jamb,  hands  folded  with 
an  air  of  permanency  across  his  abdomen, 
and  countenance  prepared  either  to  dissolve  in 
smiles  or  break  up  in  a  horse-laugh,  just  as  cir- 
cumstances might  seem  to  direct.  That  bit  of 
a  room,  which  he  styled  his  "  office,"  had  seen  a 
deal  of  medicinal  experience  in  its  day.  Its 
atmosphere  was  heavy  with  the  fragrance  of 
boluses  and  gallipots.  Plasters  and  surgical 


THE   COUNTRY  DOCTOR.  225 

ingenuities  lay  rather  promiscuously  around. 
The  windows  were  heavy  with  dust  and  cur- 
tained with  cobwebs ;  and  as  for  the  floor,  it 
was  worn  bare  of  carpet  and  paint  with  the 
shuffle  and  tread  of  heavily  booted  feet. 

We  all  went  in  there  one  Sunday  after- 
noon, just  after  tea.  The  old  Doctor  did  n't 
happen  to  be  in  the  room  at  the  moment, 
but  he  soon  came  roystering  along  in  his  jolly 
manner  from  another  room,  where  he  said  his 
wife  had  prevailed  on  him  to  go  through  the 
form  of  taking  tea. 

"  And  now,  come,"  said  he ;  "I  believe 
we  've  got  a  little  something  or  another  left 
on  the  table  ;  and  if  we  have  n't,  I  'm  certain 
there  's  something  in  the  cupboard !  So  come 
—  come  right  along ;  and  just  see  for  your- 
selves how  much  healthier  't  is  to  live  in  a 
doctor's  house  than  in  some  others !  " 

He  enjoyed  as  sound  digestion  as  a  man 
could ;  hence,  of  course,  his  remarkable  and 
uninterrupted  flow  of  spirits.  An  observant 
old  physician  of  Boston  once  said,  that  he 
could  tell  almost  any  man's  creed  by  the  state 
of  his  liver.  Had  it  been  proposed  to  apply 
this  test  to  Dr.  Twogood,  it  would  have  been 
found  that  a  more  orthodox,  sound-at-heart, 
and  thoroughly  religious  man  nowhere  enjoyed 

15 


226  HOMESPUN. 

existence.  It  must  have  been  owing,  much  of 
it,  to  his  excellent  digestion  —  very  simple 
recipe  for  so  placid  and  summer-morning  like 
a  disposition. 

Riding  about  the  country,  and  driving  over 
the  rough  lanes  and  stony  roads  and  grassy 
by-ways  which  he  and  his  trusty  beast  knew 
so  well,  the  Doctor  became  a  feature  — though 
not  a  very  fixed  one  —  in  the  rural  landscape. 
He  invariably  rode  in  a  narrow,  high-shouldered, 
selfish-looking  sulky,  —  some  persons  were  ill- 
natured  enough  to  say  that  he  might  not  be 
asked  to  give  a  body  a  lift  on  the  road.  But 
Dr.  Twogood  was  not  the  man  to  want  an  ex- 
cuse for  doing  a  selfish  deed  ;  he  kept  his  sulky 
because  it  was  easier  for  his  faithful  horse  to 
carry  him  so,  —  because  he  had  the  floor  ex- 
actly fitted  to  the  transportation  of  his  instru- 
ments and  medicine-chest,  —  and,  finally,  be- 
cause it  was  soonest  got  into  and  out  of; 
reasons  enough  to  satisfy  the  sourest  grumbler. 
The  old  sulky  was  one  of  the  well-understood 
institutions  of  the  country  neighborhood  ;  jog- 
ging and  creaking  across  the  roads,  jolting  over 
the  rocks  and  loose  stones,  trundling  softly 
down  the  reaches  of  green  turf  that  lined  the 
old  highways,  and  rolling  and  rattling  at  last 
up  to  the  Doctor's  door  with  an  air  of  conse- 


THE  COUNTRY  DOCTOR.  227 

quence  which  best  betokened  the  true  charac- 
ter of  its  inmate  and  owner. 

The  old  horse,  and  the  old  carriage,  which  a 
man  is  in  the  habit  of  using  every  day,  at 
length  wears  as  much  significance  as  one  can 
find  in  the  features,  the  walk,  the  dress,  or  the 
speech  of  the  man  himself;  and  that  may  stand 
for  a  reason  why  I  have  thus  gone  a  little  out 
of  my  way,  taking  my  reader  by  the  button- 
hole, as  it  were,  to  treat  in  a  semi-confidential 
style  of  the  Doctor's  sulky.  It  was  as  much 
the  Doctor's  self  as  his  overcoat  was,  or  his 
hat,  or  his  laugh.  Had  you  seen  only  that  in 
the  street,  the  horse  drowsily  dropping  his  head 
upon  his  knees,  you  would  have  been  quite 
ready  to  say  you  had  seen  the  Doctor  himself. 

But  the  most  unaccountable  thing  is, 

what  leads  men  of  like  profession  to  so  fall  out 
with  one  another.  They  are  all  guilty  of  it,  in 
every  profession  known.  The  ministers  quarrel, 
(don't  try  to  make  me  believe  they  don't!)  and 
are  jealous  of  one  another,  and  go  off  and  say 
sour  things  one  of  the  other,  and  sometimes 
refuse  the  bow  of  recognition  in  the  streets. 
And  the  lawyers  disagree  on  principle  and 
habit  both,  to  say  nothing  of  interest,  as  any 
one  may  see  for  himself  by  paying  a  visit  to 
the  nearest,  court-room.  Authors,  too,  are  a 


228  HOMESPUN. 

quarrelsome  race,  —  irritabile  genus,  —  and  fall 
into  cat-and-dog  practices,  feeling  that  not  to 
be  praised  is  only  worse  than  to  hear  their 
brethren  well  spoken  of.  And  so  through  the 
list 

Even  Dr.  Twogood,  kind  and  genial  philos- 
opher that  he  was,  never  was  guilty  of  loving 
the  other  Doctor  over  at  Seesaw  —  Dr.  Plas- 
ther  —  any  too  well.  Not  a  whit  of  friend- 
ship was  wasted  between  them.  They  seemed 
born  to  dwell  on  different  planets.  So  heart- 
ily did  Dr.  Twogood  hate  the  other,  Samuel 
Johnson,  who  liked  above  all  things  a  sturdy 
hater,  would  have  taken  him  to  his  arms. 
Could  he  have  annihilated  him  with  his  breath 
alone,  poor  Plasther  would  long  before  have 
quit  existence. 

Whenever  they  met  upon  the  cross-roads,  as 
they  sometimes  did,  each  pursuing  his  way  to 
the  dwellings  of  his  own  patients,  they  saw 
nothing  but  the  trees  and  stone  walls  before 
them  ;  and  these  they  looked  at  with  intense 
attention.  They  never  exchanged  salutes,  — 
even  professional  ones.  If  both  chanced  to  be 
summoned  to  a  consultation  on  the  same  case, 
of  course  they  fell  to  hurling  sharp-cornered 
words  at  one  another  if  it  could  n't  be  helped ; 
but  it  was  in  a  very  shying  manner.  They 


THE  COUNTRY  DOCTOR.      229 

bolstered  up  none  of  their  nouns  with  choice 
adjectives,  and  cushioned  none  of  their  epithets 
with  soft  adverbs  ;  but  they  dealt  in  marrowy 
verbs,  solid  substantives,  and  very  energetic 
pronouns.  What  was  particularly  noticeable, 
nearly  all  these  latter  parts  of  speech  were 
personal  pronouns.  What  passed  from  one  to 
the  other  was  as  direct  as  a  musket-ball,  and 
could  as  readily  have  been  mistaken  in  its 
meaning. 

The  most  fun  occurred  —  if  there  can  be  fun 
where  matters  are  so  serious  in  their  conse- 
quences —  when  one  was  called  to  attend  a 
family  where  the  other  could  do  no  more,  or 
which  had  lost  faith  in  him.  It  was  worth 
belonging  to  the  anxious  family  itself,  to  wit- 
ness the  phenomenon.  The  rival  doctor  would 
come  stalking  in,  and  exclaim  in  a  tone  of  au- 
thority before  taking  his  seat,  — 

«  You  've  had  Plasther  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Doctor.  But  we  don't  think  he  under- 
stands the  case.  He  said  he  had  done  all  he 
could,  —  and  so  we  sent  for  yon  !  " 

"  Oho !  "  bawled  the  Doctor.  "  Then  after 
finding  out  he  's  a  fool,  you  hurry  over  after 
me,  just  to  let  me  know  you  don't  think  me 
one !  A  fine  way  to  give  me  your  opinion  of 
we,  by  sending  for  him  !  I  'd  a  mind  not  to 


230  HOMESPUN. 

come  at  all !  I  'd  a  notion  of  letting1  you  suffer 
awhile,  just  to  show  you  how  good  't  is ! " 

They  sometimes  made  an  effort  to  pacify 
him,  either  by  offering  a  clean  confession  of 
their  fault,  or  by  inventing  some  little  family 
excuses,  —  which  were  good  so  far  as  they 
went,  and  to  a  certain  extent  baffled  the  scru- 
tiny and  defied  the  objections  of  the  Doctor. 

Once  mollified,  however,  he  would  calmly 
take  his  seat  by  the  side  of  the  patient,  and 
proceed  in  the  mechanical  way  to  feel  the  pulse 
and  study  the  tongue ;  after  which,  in  rather 
stronger  language  than  before,  he  fell  to  la- 
menting the  rashness  and  wrong-headedness 
of  some  people,  —  and  then  to  hope  they  would 
manage  to  get  the  scales  off  their  eyes  while 
he  lived.  The  scene  usually  terminated  with 
the  Doctor's  return  to  a  normal  and  pleasanter 
state  of  feeling ;  in  fact,  he  actually  felt  better 
for  having  been  ruffled.  Once  well  rid  of  his 
surplus  bile,  —  whatever  it  might  have  been  in 
quantity,  —  he  became  more  companionable 
than  ever. 

Dr.  Twogood  furnished  more  than  a  fair  av- 
erage specimen  of  the  country  doctor.  They 
are  not  all  of  them  such  easy  souls  as  he,  nor 
so  full,  even  up  to  the  chin,  with  the  milk  of 
human  kindness.  Few  could  style  themselves 


THE   COUNTRY  DOCTOR.  231 

so  thoroughly  domestic,  or  would  know  how  to 
get  so  much  pleasure  out  of  their  fruit  orchards, 
their  cattle,  their  pigs,  and  their  poultry.  Still, 
making  due  allowance  here  and  due  allowance 
there,  they  are,  as  a  class,  fond  of  the  same 
sorts  of  pleasures,  and  inclined  to  the  same 
class  of  recreative  occupations.  With  all  their 
drugs  and  pills,  their  preparations  and  tinct- 
ures, their  bleedings  and  boluses,  they  form  a 
most  excellent  class  of  citizens  by  themselves. 
Some  of  them  are  called  coarse,  and  deserved- 
ly ;  they  would  be  thought  out  of  the  reach  of 
ordinary  human  sympathy.  Such  are  the  men 
who  will  seat  you  in  a  chair  opposite,  and  fall 
to  descanting  on  the  pulseless  heart  of  some 
person  which  they  have  just  been  dissecting, 
or  on  the  moans  and  groans  of  some  poor  fel- 
low who  has  lost  a  limb  under  their  surgical 
knife  and  saw.  We  are  glad  these  do  not  rep- 
resent the  profession.  It  is  bad  enough  that 
there  are  so  many  of  them. 

In  rural  communities,  the  Doctor  and  his  in- 
fluence form  an  important  element.  You  can 
ill  afford  to  come  into  the  country  and  overlook 
him.  He  dwells  in  a  house  as  imposing  as  the 
minister's,  or  the  lawyer's ;  these  three  houses, 
like  the  three  men  who  inhabit  them,  form  the 
chief  exceptions  to  the  group  of  roofs  and 


232  HOMESPUN. 

chimneys,  and  may  be  allowed  to  impart  a 
character  to  the  whole.  If  a  stranger  enters 
the  village,  he  is  pointed  to  one  of  these  three 
houses  to  begin  with.  From  these  he  forms 
his  idea  of  the  place. 

The  habits  and  calling  of  a  country  doctor 
are  not,  perhaps,  invested  with  as  much  inter- 
est as  are  those  of  the  country  lawyer,  —  yet 
they  are  distinct  and  noticeable.  There  stands 
his  little  office,  —  either  a  little  box  by  itself,  or 
a  room  set  apart  in  his  own  dwelling.  There 
is  his  old  horse,  trundling  the  respectable  chaise, 
or  sulky,  behind  him.  There  is  his  garden,  and 
his  orchard  ;  and  there  stretch  his  modest  out- 
lands,  for  which  he  is  as  much  to  be  envied  as 
those  whose  longer  titles  form  the  larger  part 
of  the  town  records.  He  is  one  of  the  genu- 
inely "  solid  men  "  of  the  place.  His  influence 
rills  through  the  whole  community.  His  ad- 
vice is  more  sought  after  even  than  the  min- 
ister's ;  certainly  more  than  the  lawyer's,  for 
the  latter  makes  a  practice  of  charging  for  his. 

These  genial,  jovial,  domestic  old  doctors 
deserve  more  than  the  mention  of  mere  words. 
They  are  our  sterling  men,  props  of  the  social 
edifice.  In  times  of  trial,  they  show  that  fibre 
of  genuine  courage  which,  in  men  of  other  call- 
ings, does  not  always  make  its  appearance.  I 


THE  COUNTRY  DOCTOR.  233 

duly  respect  and  honor  them  ;  some  of  them  I 
could  love.  In  spite  of  ipecac  and  emetics, 
blue  pills  and  blister  plasters,  tourniquets  and 
surgical  saws,  I  cannot  help  my  attachment  for 
them,  one  and  all.  So  intimately  are  science 
and  the  commonest  common-sense  mixed  in 
their  characters,  it  is  ten  to  one  that,  before  the 
world  looks  for  it,  it  will  catch  a  ray  of  light 
from  a  quarter  generally  thought  dark  and  un- 
promising. A  good  country  doctor,  of  the  real 
old  stamp  and  style,  is,  in  truth,  no  such  ordi- 
nary man.  Not  many  grown  men  and  women 
of  the  neighborhood,  but  owe  him  all  thanks 
for  the  prolongation  of  their  very  unsatisfac- 
tory baby  existence. 


THE  COUNTRY  LAWYER. 

IT  so  happens  that  my  impressions  of  coun- 
try 'squires  date  back  in  my  early  youth ; 
and,  to  be  candid,  I  cannot  exactly  say  if  I  was 
possessed  chiefly  of  a  dislike  or  a  fear  of  them 
all. 

At  this  moment  there  rises  in  my  mind's  eye 
the  great  legal  functionary  of  the  little  town 
of  Follifog.  In  his  little  box  of  an  office  he 
sits  in  his  arm-chair,  of  a  summer  afternoon, 
his  feet  fastened  to  the  window-sill,  his  thumbs 
hooked  in  the  armholes  of  his  waistcoat,  and 
his  firm-set  head  as  full  of  wisdom  as  an  egg 
is  of  meat.  If  a  client  happens  to  be  sharing 
the  hour  with  him,  he  is  either  talking  in  that 
resonant  tone  which  so  impresses  itself  on  all 
his  clients'  minds,  or  the  brazen  echoes  of  his 
professional  laugh  are  reverberating  up  and 
down  the  village  street. 

He  rejoices  in  that  voice  of  his,  which  is  so 
hard  and  loud,  esteeming  it  a  gift,  by  whose 
help  he  impresses  his  personal  power  upon  cli- 


THE   COUNTRY  LAWYER.  235 

ents  and  opponents  alike.  When  he  rises  in 
court  to  wrangle  and  argue,  it  is  with  a  delib- 
erateness  which  few  men  can  parallel.  The 
sweet  and  bitter  cud  of  legal  lore  he  chews 
without  cessation.  Fortified  within  the  en- 
trenchments of  professional  dignity,  he  sallies 
out  only  when  he  feels  very  sure  of  bringing 
back  the  enemy  captive.  All  the  little  boys 
look  up  to  him  in  wonder,  remembering  what 
a  hand  he  has  had  in  sending  off  thieves  and 
drunkards  and  otherwise  questionable  charac- 
ters to  the  county  lock-up.  Mothers  have  a 
habit  of  looking  askance  at  him  on  Sundays, 
while  he  is  at  such  pains  to  make  a  display  of 
wristbands  to  the  congregation,  wondering, 
perhaps,  if  he  is  really  like  other  men,  or  if  he 
possesses  no  more  than  a  vulgar-fractional  na- 
ture, about  equally  divided  between  the  horse 
and  the  human,  —  griffinish  and  fabulous. 
None  of  them  are  fond  of  thinking  he  would 
prove  a  match  for  their  daughters ;  and  yet,  too 
many  of  them  would  actually  be  proud  of  such 
a  connection,  even  if  they  could  foresee  the 
unsatisfactory  lives  their  girls  would  lead  in 
consequence. 

There  are  some  few  persons,  and  particularly 
in  country  towns,  who  imagine  it  a  great  lift  to 
be  a  lawyer.  They  regard  this  character  as 


236  HOMESPUN. 

the  Jupiter  Tonans  of  the  rural  Olympus. 
They  associate  all  that  is  great  and  worthy  in 
the  State  with  his  occupation.  He,  of  all  the 
rest,  is  the  one  man  who  attends  to  the  busi- 
ness of  everybody  else.  He  is  as  handy  at 
private  as  at  public  affairs.  He  draws  up  wills 
for  dying  persons  —  has  a  hand  in  the  settle- 
ment of  estates  —  throws  his  professional  guar- 
dianship around  the  orphans  and  fatherless  — 
becomes  the  trustee  of  property  of  all  descrip- 
tions and  values  —  manages  delicate  questions 
arising  between  the  different  members  of  the 
same  family  —  improves  the  slender  estates  of 
widows  and  maiden  ladies  —  attends  the  jus- 
tice courts,  those  rural  standards  and  institutes 
of  law  and  order  —  helps  employ  a  teacher  for 
the  Academy  —  and  is  sometimes  an  active 
member  of  that  very  important  body  known  as 
the  Church  Committee.  There  is,  in  fact,  no 
office  which  the  village  advocate  and  attorney 
is  not  qualified  to  fill.  Let  it  be  never  so  trifling 
and  inconsiderable,  he  will  manage  to  invest  it 
with  such  pomp  and  circumstance  of  learned 
phraseology  as  shall  make  it  seem  scarcely  less 
important  and  dignified  than  the  Presidency  it- 
self. It  is  indeed  a  wonder,  what  a  faculty  a 
country  lawyer  has  of  extracting  the  very  es- 
sence of  dignity  out  of  some  kinds  of  occu- 
pation, in  themselves  so  pitiful  and  mean. 


THE  COUNTRY  LAWYER.  237 

In  the  same  town  of  Follifog  lived  and  prac- 
tised, too,  Squire  Brigham.  The  Squire  was 
one  of  the  reputed  Solon  s  of  the  place.  He 
was  a  man  very  generally  "  looked  up  to,"  by 
foe  as  well  as  by  friend.  Aside  from  the  doc- 
tor and  the  minister,  no  one  was  popularly 
reckoned  wiser  than  he.  In  the  stores  and  at 
the  tavern  men  listened  to  him  with  eagerness, 
and  felt  grateful  to  catch  the  very  drippings 
from  the  eaves  of  his  wisdom  — without  a  fear 
of  being  asked  for  a  fee.  He  could  stand  and 
face  people  in  church  with  a  settled  assurance 
that  was  worth  a  fortune  to  any  lawyer ;  and 
few  were  the  eyes  which  could  wrestle  with 
his,  and  not  catch  a  sudden  fall. 

In  his  profession,  no  man  was  ever  known 
to  be  more  stirring  than  Squire  Brigham.  Ev- 
erybody knew  that,  to  their  cost.  Numbers 
who  had  gone  to  law  under  his  lead  for  "  dam- 
ages "  were  quite  ready  to  admit  that  they  got 
them.  By  the  force  of  his  energy  and  the  per- 
suasiveness of  his  eloquence,  he  had  managed 
to  secure  plentiful  emoluments,  and  was  —  at 
the  particular  time  I  speak  of — on  the  high 
road  to  public  office  and  favor.  Long  ago  had 
the  popular  voice  pronounced  him  a  "  smart" 
lawyer,  which  means  whatever  you  please. 
What  the  popular  heart  might  have  chosen  to 


238  HOMESPUN. 

say  of  him,  —  supposing  it  possessed  so  "  mi- 
raculous "  an  organ  as  a  tongue,  —  would  not 
so  well  suit  this  present  purpose  to  repeat.  He 
occupied  as  fine  a  house  as  any  man  in  town 
already.  He  "  stood  high  "  with  the  inhabi- 
tants, and  exchanged  familiar  calls  with  the 
minister's  family;  and  in  the  days  when  the 
ministers  of  sequestered  towns  in  New  Eng- 
land were  virtually  Popes  in  their  little  realms, 
this  one  fact  was  a  sure  guaranty  of  respecta- 
bility, if  not  an  actual  passport  to  local  emi- 
nence. 

The  lawyer's  house  stood  behind  a  couple 
of  silvery  sycamores,  scarcely  more  stately  than 
himself,  that  imparted  a  mansion-like  appear- 
ance to  the  dwelling  itself;  whilst  within  the 
cincture  of  its  white  filagree  fence  throve  shrubs 
and  flowers  enough  to  have  made  the  heart  of 
any  country  lawyer  as  soft  as  a  woman's,  a 
poet's,  or  a  story-teller's.  The  front  walk  was 
of  broad  and  clean  flagging-stones,  which  was 
a  luxury  very  few  of  the  householders  round 
about  could  well  afford.  A  huge  lilac-bush 
stood  beneath  either  front  window,  and  fur- 
nished, in  the  season  of  flowering,  fragrance 
for  the  whole  length  of  the  street;  while  it 
unhappily  led  not  a  few  little  boys,  on  their 
way  to  Sabbath-school,  into  desperate  bogs  of 


THE   COUNTRY  LAWYER.  239 

temptation,  from  a  desire  to  snap  off  spikes  of 
the  royal  purple  blossoms  and  stick  them  in 
their  button-holes.  Snow-balls,  too,  were  grow- 
ing in  immense  clusters  in  that  yard ;  and,  here 
and  there,  a  hollyhock,  a  bunch  of  pinks,  and 
a  screen  of  morning-glory  vines  before  a  win- 
dow. 

But  Squire  Brigham  is  a  representative  of 
the  "upper  class"  of  6ountry  lawyers;  Mr. 
Jenkins  is  several  grades  below  him.  He  — 
Jenkins  — is  a  much  younger  man.  He  has  n't 
yet  taken  a  wife.  He  is  not  allowed,  by  the 
adjudication  of  public  sentiment,  to  do  a  good 
many  things  that  a  man  like  Judge  Bingham 
—  for  example  —  can  do  with  perfect  impu- 
nity. 

He  sits  —  Jenkins  still  —  in  an  office  with 
the  proportions  of  a  snug  hen-coop  ;  and  all 
around  him  busy  spiders  weave  their  webs  for 
giddy  flies,  suggesting  the  meshes  he  is  all  the 
time  weaving  in  his  brain  to  entangle  unsus- 
pecting men  and  women.  The  new  calf-bound 
law  books  that  give  his  shelves  an  imposing 
air,  and  litter  his  table  as  with  an  appearance 
of  business,  call  up  visions  of  dead-and-buried 
lawsuits,  —  ghosts  of  long-departed  plaintiffs 
and  defendants  who  will  never  enter  the  legal 
tilt-yard  more,  —  estates  rent  into  ravelings  by 


240  HOMESPUN. 

the  lingual  dexterity  of  cunning  and  voluble 
lawyers,  —  together  with  a  body  of  established 
principles  of  law  and  equity,  that  leave  all  par- 
ties to  an  issue  as  much  in  the  fog  as  before 
the  attorneys  and  judges  conspired  to  develop 
such  confusion. 

Justice  Courts  furnish  one  of  the  staple 

entertainments  of  a  country  town,  or  village. 
On  rainy  days,  they  are  peculiarly  interesting. 
The  male  part  of  the  population  is  in  a  state 
of  what  is  styled  "  high  cockolorum."  On  the 
occasions  when  these  are  held,  there  is  leisure 
enough  for  everybody,  no  matter  what  his  trade 
or  occupation.  The  men  can't  work  out  in  the 
fields ;  the  tanners  would  hardly  keep  dry 
around  their  sloppy  vats  in  the  oozy  yards  ; 
there  is  no  wood  to  be  hauled  to  the  back- 
door ;  and  the  only  talk  at  the  store  is  of  ap- 
proaching Court. 

This  is  held  either  in  the  open  bar-room,  or 
the  more  spacious  hall  above  '  stairs.  In  this 
particular  Court  it  is  where  Mr.  Jenkins  awakes 
to  a  sense  of  his  individual  glory.  In  the 
frowning  presence  of  the  Justice  of  the  Peace, 
and  of  that  miscellaneous  tribunal  whose  ap- 
plause he  craves  with  such  eagerness,  he  brow- 
beats, cross-examines,  and  habitually  bullies 
timid  witnesses,  —  male  and  female,  —  and 


THE   COUNTRY  LAWYER.  241 

returns  to  his  coop  of  an  office  after  the  day's 
work  is  done,  secure  of  the  fame  for  which  he 
strives  and  about  Which  he  fondly  dreams. 

If  you  could  but  behold  him  in  that  notice- 
able hall  of  justice,  thus  invested  with  the  high 
sense  of  his  own  importance,  gazing  so  vacantly 
over  the  crowd  of  staring  spectators,  running 
his  hand  so  carelessly  through  his  hair,  hurling 
his  high-keyed  interrogatories  at  the  abashed 
witnesses,  watching  every  chance  to  convulse 
the  too  ready  auditory  with  laughter,  bold  and 
brazen  in  his  address,  rarely,  if  ever,  thrown  off 
his  guard,  compelling  the  village  Shallow  be- 
hind the  table  to  shrink  into  the  proportions 
of  submissive  inferiority,  running  over  at  the 
mouth  with  legal  phrases  and  the  technical 
lingo  of  legal  instruments,  reclining  entirely 
upon  his  own  dignity,  assured  that,  of  all  the 
rest,  he  is  nearly  the  largest  toad  in  the  entire 
town  puddle,  and,  in  fine,  quite  satisfied  with 
his  cause,  his  audience,  himself,  and  his  pros- 
pects for  the  future ! 

The  character  of  the  country  lawyer's  occu- 
pations cannot,  of  course,  yield  any  large  share 
of  refined  social  and  domestic  enjoyment.  He 
cannot  well  afford,  from  the  very  nature  of  the 
case,  to  put  his  sensibilities  out  to  school.  He 
lives,  and  must  hope  to  live,  chiefly  upon  the 


242  HOMESPUN. 

unhappy  differences  and  discords  of  the  limited 
world  around  him.  The  more  his  neighbors 
fall  out,  the  better  it  is  for  him.  He  watches 
for  new  chances  for  a  lawsuit  as  sharply  as  a 
cat  waits  at  a  rat-hole.  As  for  the  finer  senti- 
ments of  local  friendship,  he  can  ill  afford  to 
indulge  them.  They  are  luxuries  which  cost 
too  much. 

This  is  the  thorough-bred  pettifogger. 

The  work  he  performs  is  small  drudgery,  at  the 
most.  It  may  be  necessary,  much  of  it ;  but 
that  necessity  even  does  not  redeem  it  from  the 
imputation  of  meanness.  Yet,  if  such  a  re- 
flection ever  stings  him,  he  is  consoled  with 
the  thought  that  he  is  pursuing  a  "  profession  " 
—  pursuing  it  just  as  much  greater  men  have 
done  before  him,  and  with  a  brand  of  ambition 
blazing  somewhere  in  his  heart.  He  is  strug- 
gling for  a  name ;  scanning  the  political  hori- 
zon, from  time  to  time,  as  a  mariner  comes  up 
on  deck  and  studies  the  clouds  ;  living  among, 
and  altogether  upon,  his  fellow-citizens,  yet  not 
of  them,  in  any  true  and  hearty  sense. 

He  is  in  the  full  blaze  of  his  glory  in  the 
County  Court  term.  If  he  cannot  bring  a  case 
before  that  court,  he  is  esteemed  but  a  "  scant 
pattern "  of  a  lawyer.  It  is  at  that  bar  the 
country  lawyer  is  in  full  feather.  The  quiet 


THE   COUNTRY  LAWYER.  243 

little  shire  town  of  the  county,  at  these  court 
terms,  overflows  with  rustic  humanity,  come  to 
look  after  its  own  and  into  everybody's  else 
business.  The  accommodations  of  the  pair  of 
rival  taverns  are  put  to  their  severest  strain. 
Through  the  days,  all  the  stalls  in  the  stables 
and  the  stands  in  the  horse-sheds  are  occupied. 
The  judge,  lawyers,  and  witnesses,  —  saying 
nothing  of  the  hangers-on  who  attend  court  as 
regularly  as  they  do  a  muster,  —  have  monop- 
olized stables  and  dormitories.  The  town  car- 
ries its  head  erectly  now.  "Writs,  summons, 
capiases,  copies,  mittimuses,  executions,  and 
the  whole  of  that  sort  of  legal  paper- work,  fly 
from  hand  to  hand  like  ballots  at  a  tight  elec- 
tion. Sleepy  crowds  stand  or  sit  through  the 
proceedings  in  the  court-room,  or  discuss,  out 
of  doors,  the  merits  of  the  cases  and  the  law- 
yers, as  they  come  on.  There  is  a  stream  of 
male  and  female  witnesses,  going  up  and  down 
stairs;  and  the  lawyers  are  marching  them  in 
and  out  of  lobbies  and  anterooms  for  prepara- 
tory drill  in  the  science  of  giving  in  testimony. 
It  looks  as  if  large  boys  were  playing  at  trials, 
and  not  altogether  like  serious  men,  transact- 
ing serious  business. 

The  country  lawyer,   however,  is   not 

what  he  was  in  the  days  of  our  fathers  ;    and 


244  HOMESPUN. 

he  knows  it  as  well  as  any  one  else.  His 
glory  has  in  a  great  degree  departed.  Since 
imprisonment  for  debt  became  obsolete,  and 
debtors  otherwise  grew  to  be  the  masters  rather 
than  the  slaves  of  their  creditors,  his  business 
and  corresponding  importance  have  shrivelled 
and  disappeared.  Though  still  as  great  a 
character  as  any  other  in  the  town,  he  finds 
his  sway  clipped  in  both  wings.  He  falls  in 
with  a  man,  now  and  then,  who  knows  about 
as  much  good  law  as  he  does.  He  mistrusts 
that  somehow  intelligence  has  got  abroad, — 
that  the  dam  has  been  breached  in  some  weak 
place,  and  the  long-pent  waters  are  overflowing 
the  whole  land. 

Hence,  he  has  been  induced  to  take  a  lesson 
or  two  in  modesty,  and  in  forbearance  also.  He 
sees  that  it  is  well  to  pay  a  little  more  respect 
to  popular  wishes  than  the  men  of  the  old 
school  were  in  the  habit  of  doing.  It  may  be 
a  fact,  he  thinks,  that  men  are  growing  more 
human  and  less  legal.  They  are  beginning  to 
look  to  other  methods  of  persuasion  than  those 
harsh  and  unsympathetic  ones  which  are  com- 
prised in  the  technicalities,  the  musty  learning, 
and  the  mandatory  spirit  of  that  grand  science 
which  goes,  the  world  over,  by  the  name  of 
LAW. 


THE  COUNTRY  POSTMASTER. 

A  COUNTRY  Post-Office,  as  a  general 
matter,  is  simply  a  country  store,  with 
some  odd  corner  railed  off  for  secresy,  if  not 
security.  Anybody  can  go  around  behind 
there,  if  he  is  so  fortunate  as  to  be  in  the  con- 
fidence —  social  or  political  —  of  the  village 
Postmaster.  It  is  chiefly  the  women  who  step 
up  to  that  desk  timidly  and  doubtingly,  as  if 
asking  a  favor,  —  or  sidle  along,  as  girls  do, 
and  inquire  for  a  letter  in  the  softest  whisper, 
lest  even  their  names  should  be  pronounced 
aloud  in  that  public  presence.  To  the  rude 
boys  the  place  is  caviare.  For  them  alone  is 
the  iron  rail  spiked  down  so  rigidly  into  the 
counter,  —  to  keep  off  trousers'  stuffs  and 
heavy  swinging  boots. 

Kegs  and  barrels  —  nail-boxes  and  soap- 
boxes —  customers  and  letter-writers  —  men 
and  boys  —  women  and  dogs  —  the  box-stove 
and  the  department  letter-boxes  —  are  all 
mingled  at  the  post-office  establishment  with 


246  HOMESPUN. 

picturesque  incongruity.  Of  a  close,  wintry 
evening,  the  apartment  is  redolent  of  savors 
unnumbered  and  indescribable.  A  row  of 
men  sit  perched  upon  the  smooth-faced  coun- 
ter ;  a  row  of  boys,  and  men  too,  sit  on  boxes 
and  nail-kegs  opposite  the  stove ;  whistling 
idlers  stand  and  stare  at  the  hoe  and  mop 
handles  so  nicely  balanced  overhead,  possibly 
calculating  if  they  would  "  hurt  "  much  if  they 
fell  on  their  crowns ;  the  iron  stove  roars,  and 
growls,  and  sputters,  from  being  frequently 
stirred  up  writh  sticks ;  little  boyg  come  in, 
every  few  minutes,  and  look  up  into  the  ex- 
pressionless faces  of  the  men  sitting  idly 
around,  —  or  listen  attentively,  with  open 
mouths,  to  what  they  happen  to  be  gossiping 
about,  —  and  then  run  uneasily  out  again  : 
in  the  solemn  pauses,  the  dull  and  heavy  tick- 
ings of  a  wooden-wheeled  Connecticut  clock, 
perched  up  among  the  snuff-jars  and  preserve- 
pots,  sound  like  Fate  solemnly  notching  off 
Time,  as  it  passes ;  now  and  then,  one  of 
them,  with  an  acuter  sense  of  hearing  (or  longer 
ears,  perhaps)  than  the  rest,  lifts  his  head  and 
announces  that  the  "stage  is  coming;"  and, 
like  the  turning  over  of  your  hand,  all  present 
get  up  and  shake  themselves  out,  against  the 
arrival  of  the  government  messenger  and  the 
fetching  in  of  the  mail-bags. 


THE   COUNTRY  POSTMASTER.         247 

It  makes  a  pretty  scene.  Terriers  might  have 
added  it  to  his  portfolio.  How  extremely  odd 
it  strikes  one,  thinking  of  all  the  men  in  a  little 
town  grouped  around  a  hot  stove  in  a  country 
store,  under  a  full  headway  of  gossip  about  the 
affairs  of  other  people,  and,  to  appearance,  as 
much  impressed  with  the  weight  of  their  re- 
sponsibility as  if  the  nation  itself  rested  on 
their  round  shoulders. 

Their  wives  at  home,  poor  women  !  — 

else  how  would  the  affairs  of  the  house  get  on  ? 
They  must  not  go  a-gadding  ;  but  the  lords,  — 
they  may  sit  about  in  the  post  office  till  they 
have  to  come  home  for  patches  to  their  trou- 
sers'-seats,  and  not  a  word  of  complaint  must 
be  uttered  against  it ! 

.  Well,  and  the  mail-coach   rattles   up. 

If  in  the  winter,  it  is  after  dark  a  long  while ; 
but  if  it  be  summer  weather,  the  sweet  twi- 
light is  gloaming  all  over  the  town.  Such 
delicious  draughts  of  enjoyment  as  one  may 
drink  in,  on  the  summer  nights,  at  this  partic- 
ular hour,  —  draughts  like  the  cool  airs  of  spice 
islands,  that  play  about  one's  temples  and  dally 
with  his  very  heart ! 

The  echoes  of  the  driver's  voice  are  to  be 
heard  all  over  the  secluded  street,  — "  Get  up 
along !  GUang  !  "  The  heavy  rattling  of  the 


248  HOMESPUN. 

wheels  makes  music  against  the  sides  of  the 
meeting-house,  and  fills  the  town  with  the 
notes  of  its  warning.  The  post-office  door 
opens,  and  forth  steps  a  boy  to  take  the  mail ; 
and  a  pencil  of  light  from  the  one  or  two  tal- 
low dips  within  projects  itself  far  out  into  the 
desert  of  darkness. 

The  cluttered  little  office  is  instantly  in  a 
hubbub.  Every  eye  is  turned  on  the  mail-bag 
and  the  Postmaster.  At  this  particular  mo- 
ment, the  latter  is  at  his  zenith.  The  by-stand- 
ers  watch  him  as  he  proceeds  to  void  the 
responsible  pouch  of  its  precious  contents. 
They  count  up  every  package,  parcel,  and 
newspaper  that  comes  to  the  light,  and  appear 
as  much  pleased  with  what  they  discover  as 
children  are  over  the  miscellaneous  contents 
of  their  Christmas-stockings.  They  give  their 
minds  to  the  study  of  color,  size,  thickness, 
and  relative  importance  of  each  article  that  is 
exposed. 

Many  of  those  nearest  the  counter,  and 
those  who,  by  reason  of  age  or  property- value, 
feel  "  privileged  "  in  the  place,  venture  upon 
taking  a  piece  or  two  of  mail-matter  into  their 
hands,  which  they  proceed  to  "  heft  "  and  make 
shrewd  computations  about.  Some  of  the 
more  forward  lads  crowd  up  under  the  men's 


THE   COUNTRY  POSTMASTER.       249 

elbows ;  and  you  can  find  an  odd  head  here, 
and  an  odd  body  there,  and  a  spare  leg  or  arm 
somewhere  else,  which,  anatomically  arranged, 
would  fairly  present  you  with  the  manners 
common  to  country  boys  in  the  post-office,  at 
the  hour  when  the  mail  arrives. 

In  good  time,  the  contents  of  the  bag  are  all 
assorted ;  that  is  to  say,  after  waiting,  and 
waiting.  It  would  astonish  an  old  Hollander 
himself,  — .  what  a  dreadfully  slow  man  the 
country  Postmaster  is ;  the  more  there  is  press- 
ing upon  him  for  dispatch,  the  less  he  is  actu- 
ally able  to  accomplish.  Nothing  confuses  him, 
for  he  will  not  permit  it.  Still,  the  miscella- 
neous talk  about  the  room  does  bother  him, 
and  he  now  and  then  looks  up  sharply  over 
his  spectacles,  as  a  thorough  school-master 
looks  around  his  little  realm  of  a  school-room. 

When,  at  length,  the  critical  moment  does 
come,  he  begins  without  the  perceptible  flutter 
of  a  nerve.  "  Mr.  Atkins  !  "  —  he  calls  out,  in 
a  tone  of  appropriate  solemnity.  The  gentle- 
man by  that  name  makes  a  half  bow,  as  if  he 
would  say,  «  Excuse  me  for  a"  moment,  all 
hands  !  "  —  slips  off  his  seat  on  the  head  of  a 
barrel  of  Genessee  flour  standing  in  the  dark- 
est corner  of  the  store,  and  supplicatingly  holds 
out  his  hand  above  the  counter.  Or,  if  he 


250  HOMESPUN. 

cannot  pierce  the  crowd,  a  file  of  good  men 
and  true  pass  over  the  documents  to  him  from 
head-quarters,  every  one  of  whom  embraces 
such  opportunity  to  study  the  post-mark  as  the 
tallowy  flare  of  the  light  affords  him. 

"  Mr.  Battles  !  "  —  again  sings  up  the  offi- 
cial at  the  desk.  Everybody  looks  around  to 
find  Mr.  Battles.  He  is  sought  after  with  as 
anxious  care  as  the  hundredth  sheep  that  went 
astray.  His  acquaintance  explore  every  corner 
and  cranny,  look  one  side  and  another  of  the 
stove-pipe,  and  finally  respond  —  "  Not  here  !  " 
Then  —  "  Mr.  Cannikin  !  "  He  comes  forward 
as  far  as  the  jam  permits  him,  and  is  put  in 
possession  of  his  mail,  much  after  the  style  of 
Mr.  Atkins.  Then —  "Miss  Fairmade!"  At 
which  some  of  the  young  men  exchange  jokes 
in  a  low  voice,  while  a  little  boy — who  has 
been  on  the  lookout  for  his  pretty  sister  near 
the  counter  —  reaches  out  his  tawny  hand  and 
makes  an  effective  grab  for  it  and  carries  it 
off. 

So  on,  through  the  list.  To  those  who  go 
without  a  word  to  their  own  boxes  and  bring 
away  their  mails  with  a  tap  on  the  glass, 
this  picture  may  seem  an  exaggeration ;  but 
back  in  the  country,  and  altogether  beyond 
town-reach,  it  will  be  recognized  at  a  glance 


THE   COUNTRY  POSTMASTER.        251 

for  the  truth.  Again  and  again  have  we  heard 
our  name  called  out  in  the  ears  of  the  town 
magnates,  and  received  what  mail  matter  was 
rightfully  ours  through  the  hands  of  we  could 
not  tell  how  many  accommodating  men  and 
boys,  mixed  together  in  officious  confusion. 

On  mooted  points  of  law  —  especially 

constitutional  law  —  the  country  Postmaster  is 
strong  beyond  any  one's  estimate.  He  has 
the  mother-wit  to  keep  a  handful  of  stray  old 
Congressional  Reports,  bound  and  lettered, 
on  the  dusty  shelf  at  his  back.  —  as  well  as  a 
more  solid-looking  copy  of  the  Statutes,  in  im- 
posing calf;  and,  with  this  legal  stock  in  trade, 
he  sets  the  town  at  defiance.  Of  course  he  is 
not  to  be  contradicted  on  matters  pertaining  to 
the  nation  and  its  welfare,  for,  sustaining  such 
close  relations  with  the  Government,  how  is  it 
to  be  supposed  that  any  other  man  can  know 
some  things  as  well  as  he  ?  Even  Goldsmith's 
school-master  is  no  match  for  him,  in  the  line 
of  "  arguing  still."  Not  even  a  member  of  the 
President's  Cabinet  can  give  an  opinion  with 
more  pragmatic  precision,  or  deliver  himself 
with  greater  assurance  of  the  intentions  of  the 
august  Washington  authorities.  He  stands 
for  the  village  Rajah  —  the  Great  Mogul  —  at 


252  HOMESPUN. 

the  head  of  the  political  wigwam  of  the  place. 
National  politics  take  their  local  coloring  by 
being  passed  through  the  rather  opaque  me- 
dium of  his  official  commentary.  He  is 
sketched,  in  the  party's  mind,  as  the  one  man 
who  keeps  the  keys,  the  seals,  and  the  secrets. 
If  a  single  man  contemplates  so  reckless  a  step 
as  party  backsliding,  or  defection,  he  of  all  the 
rest  is  close  behind  him  to  make  him  quake  in 
whatever  clothes  he  happens  to  have  on ! 

Thus  does  the  Postmaster  practically  be- 
come the  centre  of  town  patronage  and  town 
consequence.  All  look  up  to  him,  as  they  do 
to  the  village  flag-staff,  from  which  the  "  stars 
and  stripes  "  are  in  the  habit  of  waving.  If 
any  grumble  at  this  or  at  that,  it  makes  very 
little  difference :  they  are  obliged  to  keep  on 
even  terms  with  him,  and  pocket  all  their  dis- 
satisfactions in  silence.  The  women  either 
like  or  dislike  him,  —  and  that  very  decidedly. 
The  younger  portion,  however,  are  careful  to 
drop  no  syllable  that  can  reach  the  Postmas- 
ter's family,  and  so  make  infinite  trouble  for 
themselves. 

When  they  trip  across  into  the  office,  they 
expect  a  joke  from  him,  rather  slyly,  about 
their  distant  correspondents,  —  which  shows 
with  what  studious  thoroughness  he  informs 


THE   COUNTRY  POSTMASTER.        253 

himself,  and  what  a  memory,  passing  all  won- 
der, he  has.  Indeed,  it  affords  him  intense  sat- 
isfaction to  poke  fun  at  the  girls  about  their 
beaux,  and  to  tease  them  with  intent  to  draw 
forth  still  more  of  their  little  love-secrets. 

Thus,  no  doubt,  would  he  like  to  pass  long 
afternoons,  alternately  running  over  odd  papers 
which  tardy  subscribers  have  failed  to  call  for, 
and  gossiping  with  the  girls  concerning  the 
trifling  love-secrets  that  form  the  staple  of 
their  letters  from  places  not  always  very  far 
off. 

It  is,  therefore,  an  unpardonable  mistake  to 
take  city  postmasters  —  the  New  York,  and 
Philadelphia,  and  Boston  magnates  —  as  the 
fair  representatives  of  these  officials  through- 
out the  land.  If  you  would  make  a  study  of 
the  Postmaster,  you  must  contemplate  those 
who  compose,  under  government  favor,  the 
rank-and-file  of  the  office-holding  army.  In 
the  rural  districts  the  real  Postmaster  excels. 
There  he  stands  forth,  statuesque  in  his  glory, 
—  columnar  and  individual  in  the  social  land- 
scape. The  whole  town  leans  on  him,  —  re- 
volves around  him.  He  attracts  all  local  and 
personal  interests,  like  iron-filings,  to  his  offi- 
cial lodestone. 


THE  POOR-HOUSE. 

THERE  is  many  a  person  who  is  born  with 
a  dread  of  some  day  "  coming  on  the 
town ; "  and  they  actually  do  what  they  are 
able  —  unwittingly,  of  course  —  to  realize 
their  fears.  Theirs  is  a  peculiarly  unfortunate 
inheritance ;  for,  by  all  odds,  the  continual 
shrinking  from  imaginary  evil  is  the  crudest 
test  of  the  elasticity  of  the  human  spirit. 

Yet  we  are  not  ourselves  to  forget  that 

the  author  of  the  immortal  Declaration  died 
poor,  leaving  his  friends  to  devise  a  friendly 
lottery-scheme  on  his  behalf;  and  another  Vir- 
ginia President's  remains  lay  for  many  a  year 
without  so  much  as  a  slab  of  stone  to  mark 
the  spot  where  they  were  buried ;  and  a 
wealthy  patriot  like  Robert  Morris,  —  the 
financier  of  the  Revolution,  whose  Hercules 
shoulder  lifted  our  national  wagon  out  of  the 
miry  difficulties  in  which  it  was  set,  —  even  he 
was  thrown  into  jail  for  debt,  and  suffered 
what  common  souls  cannot  conceive  of. 


THE  POOR-HOUSE.  255 

Perhaps,  too,  these  timid  ones  have  some  of 
them  heard  of  Columbus  in  chains ;  or  of 
Captain  John  Smith  in  a  London  hovel,  dying 
in  beggary  and  want;  or  of  Beau  Brummel 
coming  to  a  pauper's  end  in  a  mendicant  hos- 
pital at  Caen  ;  or  they  reflect  that,  since  the 
periodic  revulsions  of  these  latter  days  have 
held  the  social  road,  our  most  affluent  men  are 
suddenly  smitten  as  with  a  leprosy,  and  cast 
down  into  the  pit  of  beggary  and  despair. 
There  is,  after  all,  much  more  in  these  things 
than  either  the  careless  or  self-reliant  person 
dreams  of;  and  what  wonder,  then,  that  there 
should  at  least  be  some  to  live  and  die  in  the 
dark  cloud  of  this  fear,  making  their  world 
hardly  more  than  a  cruel  system  of  imprison- 
ment. 

The  Poor-house  is  but  a  dismal,  doleful 
place,  at  best.  In  many  of  the  country  towns 
of  New  England,  the  town's  poor  —  nick- 
named paupers  —  are  regularly  hired  out  to 
the  lowest  bidder.  He  takes  the  job  off  the 
town's  hands,  risks  from  sickness  and  death 
thrown  in.  He  estimates  pretty  closely  how 
much  work  he  may  be  able  to  wring  out  of 
this  one  on  the  farm,  and  of  that  one  in  the 
house,  and  of  a  third  in  the  shop  or  at  the 
saw-mill.  He  prudently  reckons  their  capacity 


256  HOMESPUN. 

for  labor,  their  average  stock  of  health,  their 
sum  total  of  appetite,  and  the  proximate  ex- 
pense of  clothing  them,  just  as  the  man  of  the 
South  used  to  reckon  expenses  and  income  for 
a  gang  of  negroes  he  thought  to  purchase  and 
put  into  his  fields ;  and  if  it  so  happens,  at 
any  time  in  the  course  of  the  year,  that  the 
balance  shows  signs  of  going  over  to  the 
wrong  side  of  the  account,  is  he  not  fruitful 
enough  in  expedients,  and  sharp  enough,  and 
has  he  not  at  his  disposal  nerve  enough,  too, 
to  experiment  on  a  reduction  in  fuel  or  fare,  or 
at  any  point,  in  fact,  where  he  is  likely  to 
make  himself  good  against  that  horrible  ogre 
—  a  loss  ? 

I  do  actually  know  I  should  prefer  to  die 
outright,  to  going  to  the  Poor-house,  such  as 
that  institution  commonly  stands  out  in  the 
social  landscape.  In  the  first  place,  there  is 
no  warm  or  tender  feeling  there,  nothing  that 
can  begin  to  compensate  a  suffering  heart 
for  the  losses  it  has  already  incurred.  It  is  a 
dismal  place,  too.  It  seems  to  stand  off  at 
such  a  distance  from  social  life,  like  some  of 
the  pest-houses  that  were  set  apart  in  the  fields 
or  woods,  in  other  days.  It  bears  no  more  rela- 
tion to  the  word  Home  than  the  common  hos- 
pital does,  if  indeed  so  much.  No  spirit  of 


THE  POOR-HOUSE.  257 

love  sits  at  its  cheerless  hearths ;  no  warm 
lights  of  affection,  or  even  of  hope,  ever  break 
through  its  dingy  windows.  No  symptoms  of 
elastic,  healthy  life  are  there.  Only  ghosts  of 
human  spirits,  traversing  without  purpose  the 
empty  chambers  and  echoing  halls.  It  is  the 
Bastile  of  society,  whose  ponderous  key,  after 
the  cruel  walls  shall  have  been  thrown  down, 
I  trust  will  be  hung  above  the  mantel  of  some 
great  humanitarian  redeemer. 

But,  of  all  other  things,  a  country  Poor-house ! 
—  where  the  traffic  in  human  flesh  and  human 
souls  is  just  as  much  winked  at  as  it  ever 
was  in  the  Brazils,  or  Cuba ;  where  human 
wretches  and  wrecks  are  brought,  after  the 
world  is  well  through  with  them,  and  made  to 
give  up  still  another  instalment  of  service,  for 
the  benefit  chiefly  of  him  who  gets  the  con- 
tract !  Last  year,  you  might  have  found  them 
quartered  at  the  farthest  limit  of  the  town,  and 
with  a  proper  keeper,  perhaps,  whose  character 
was  the  best  pledge  of  his  kindness  ;  this  year, 
they  have  been  huddled  off,  in  cold  and  stormy 
weather,  to  the  opposite  town  limit,  —  any- 
where from  three  to  seven  miles  distant,  —  and 
put  under  the  iron  thumb  of  a  man  who  has 
no  soul  himself,  nor  stops  to  ask  if  others  are 
any  better  endowed  than  he.  And  the  next 

17 


258  HOMESPUN. 

year —  God  help  them!  They  no  more  know 
who  their  owner  may  be  than  so  many  Vir- 
ginia slaves  in  a  Richmond  pen ! 

There  appears  before  my  eyes,  this 

moment,  the  whitewashed  stone  structure, 
looking  so  very  hard  and  cruel,  that  formed  one 
'of  the  social  outworks  of  my  native  town,  —  a 
low,  gloomy  building,  with  a  prison-like  en- 
trance into  a  stone-paved  hall,  and  long  benches 
standing  against  the  walls  outside,  whereon 
many  a  weary  heart  has  sat  with  its  sorrowful 
burdens,  that  has  since  entered  upon  a  more 
cheerful  lot.  My  young  imagination  always 
associated  these  objects  on  the  outside  benches 
with  lives  of  wretchedness,  drearily  dragged 
out  to  their  end,  —  and  figures  of  bent  and 
wasted  men  and  women,  muttering  to  them- 
selves snatches  of  the  rosy  memories  which 
had  their  bloom  far,  far  back  in  youth. 

On  the  pleasant  Saturday  afternoons  a  squad 
of  us  —  all  "  good  boys,"  of  course  —  were 
used  to  ramble  across  the  river,  to  gratify  noth- 
ing better  than  a  morbid  curiosity,  or,  possibly, 
a  fugitive  impulse  with  a  dash  of  humor  in 
it ;  —  and  never  did  my  feet  point  themselves 
home  again  from  that  place,  without  an  almost 
audible  thanksgiving  in  my  heart.  Glad 
enough  was  I  to  feel  that  I  still  had  a  home, 


THE  POOR-HOUSE.  259 

where  all  the  boyish  fancies  and  sentiments 
might  brood.  Secretly,  but  continually,  I  re- 
joiced that  there  was  still  a  something  be- 
tween me  and  the  poor-house.  As  the  recol- 
lection of  those  decrepit  figures,  those  wan  and 
wrinkled  faces,  those  profoundly  sad  eyes  .re- 
turned upon  me  so  vividly.  I  quickened  my 
pace  to  be  farther  from  so  dreary  a  scene.  And 
still  a  morbid  desire  drew  me  back  again  ;  and 
on  the  very  next  Saturday  afternoon  we  were 
all  of  us  prowling  about  the  dingy  premises 
once  more,  watching  with  boyish  intentness  for 
the  regular  coming  in  and  going  out  of  our 
wretched  favorites. 

There  was  one  thin,  little,  sharp-featured 
woman,  who  was  reputed  love-cracked  ;  she 
wandered  about  without  any  sort  of  restraint, 
and  without  shoes,  at  that ;  and  dressed  in 
extremely  short  clothes.  Her  gray,  elfin-like 
hair  was  clipped  close,  with  the  exception  of  a 
couple  of  horn-locks,  and  her  high  forehead 
was  plaited  with  the  very  finest  of  wrinkles. 
She  had  a  habit  of  starting  up  suddenly  from 
her  seat,  and  hurrying  to  touch  her  fingers  to 
some  particular  object,  —  perhaps  no  more 
than  a  nail-head  on  the  floor,  —  that  momen- 
tarily attracted  her.  Down  she  sat  in  one  of 
the  ash- bottomed  chairs,  and  up  she  got  as 


260  HOMESPUN. 

quick  as  she  sat  down.  All  the  while  her  thin 
lips  were  in  motion,  mumbling  or  whispering. 
Some  of  the  other  paupers  insisted  that  she 
was  talking  of  the  unfaithful  one  who  had 
brought  her  to  her  present  wretched  estate  ; 
and  some  declared  she  was  in  league  with  the 
Evil  One,  to  destroy  all  within  the  house ;  and 
the  rest  were  satisfied  to  treat  her  with  a  mild 
and  inefficient  sort  of  disdain,  as  if  mere  com- 
passion would  scarcely  cover  a  case  so  pecu- 
liar. But  those  little  gray  eyes,  now  twinkling 
with  fragmentary  intelligence,  and  now  glaring 
at  you  as  if  they  would  pierce  you  through,  — 
those  two  or  three  elfin-Jocks,  beaten  with  the 
rains  and  blanched  with  the  winds  for  many  a 
year,  —  that  thin  and  slightly  bent  form,  clad 
so  scantily  and  ever  in  such  active  motion,  — 
all  these  will  hold  fast  in  my  memory,  though 
I  should  live  to  reach  fourscore. 

Then  there  was  an  idiotic  fellow  in  the 
group,  who  furnished  us  a  good  share  of  our 
amusement  in  those  days.  He  said  little,  of 
course,  and  those  few  articulations  were  so  in- 
distinct and  accompanied  with  such  grimaces 
and  facial  distortions  as  to  fairly  frighten  us. 
He  never  tired  of  asking  for  a  cent ;  —  "  Do- 
do-do gi'  me  c-c-cent !  "  And  he  implored  us 
for  a  cracker  with  such  a  hideous  squint  of  his 


THE  POOR-HOUSE.  261 

eye,  and  twist  of  his  lower  jaw,  and  roll  of  his 
thick  tongue,  as  to  make  us  laugh  out  even 
while  we  felt  such  true  compassion. 

Still  another  creature-character  there  was, 
who  chanced  to  be  gifted  with  just  intelligence 
enough  to  feel  sure  that  he  was  brighter  than 
the  idiotic  subject ;  he  was  a  clear  "  better-than- 
thou  "  individual,  and  so  far  as  poor  foolish 
Sam  was  concerned,  delighted  to  betray  it.  He 
was  a  great  talker,  and  had  the  eyes  of  a 
lobster,  and  a  tongue  that  would  crowd  itself 
out  of  his  mouth.  If  he  saw  that  Sam  was 
furnishing  us  with  amusement,  up  he  came  to 
display  his  own  superior  parts  upon  so  gloomy 
a  foil.  It  would  indeed  be  a  pity  if  one  could 
not  shine,  with  a  poor  idiot  to  furnish  the  back- 
ground. This  voluble  fellow  took  upon  him- 
self an  immensely  patronizing  care  of  the  othe^ 
as  if,  in  some  time  past,  he  might  have  been 
appointed  his  guardian.  He  would  come 
up  and  pull  down  the  upraised  hands  of  the 
pitiful  fool,  and  offer  him  advice  about  what 
he  ought  to  do  and  say  before  us.  "  Seems 
to  me  "  —  he  would  break  out,  with  a  proud 
glance  around  on  us  — "•  Sam  don't  know 
nothin'  at  all !  He-he-he !  "  Then  he  would 
order  him  to  ask  for  his  cracker,  or  his  cent ; 
and  suddenly  turn  his  back  upon  him,  and 
,  neither  he  nor  we  knew  at  what. 


262  HOMESPUN. 

At  length  this  very  fellow  came  to  amuse  us 
most  of  all,  though  he  little  dreamed  it  was  so. 
We  used  to  nudge  one  another,  and  get  our- 
selves all  prepared  to  enjoy  these  displays  of 
his  fancied  superiority  over  the  weaker  fool. 
The  trick  fails  to  provoke  the  same  astonish- 
ment now,  since  the  world  has  opened  its  wider 
view  to  me. 

The  remainder  of  that  pauper  regiment 
comes  up  before  me  in  review,  clad  in  their 
cheap  and  scant  pauper  uniform.  Black  and 
white  —  men  and  women  — old  and  young, — 
alas !  alas !  for  the  pledges  and  promises  and 
false  lights  of  our  social  system!  A  decayed, 
unhappy,  aimless  race ;  consumed  of  "  dry 
rot ; "  thrust  out  and  kept  out  of  the  social 
world  by  the  hand  of  actual  benevolence ; 
shut  up  from  the  living  sympathy  of  their  fel- 
low-creatures ;  faded,  worn,  and  broken,  wait- 
ing in  a  sort  of  sullen  silence  for  the  open- 
ing of  the  great  door  that  swings  on  golden 
hinges,  and  is  to  let  them  into  a  light  which 
no  man  can  obstruct  any  more. 

A  Poor-house  starts  strange  thoughts, 

out  of  time  and  tune,  harsh  and  dissonant,  — 
which  cannot  instantly  be  put  down.  You 
find  there  persons  whose  lives  had  as  prom- 
ising a  beginning  as  your  own,  but  who  have 


THE  POOR-HOUSE.  263 

been  able,  out  of  the  body  of  their  combined 
exertions  and  aspirations,  to  reach  but  this 
inauspicious  goal.  There,  too,  you  see,  close 
beside  such,  other  persons  whose  natures  had 
foul  stains  on  them  from  the  beginning,  which 
would  not  wash  out ;  and  whose  very  presence 
imparts  to  the  place  a  lazaar-house  character, 
as  if  it  were  actually  peopled  with  moral  in- 
fections. And  pale  and  suffering  women,  too, 
who  have  vainly  followed,  in  the  blindness  of 
love,  faithless  and  forgetful  husbands,  till  their 
wearied  feet  have  finally  brought  them  to  this 
common  refuge  of  sorrow  and  despair.  Or, 
how  and  then,  may  be  caught  the  glimpse  of 
a  child's  face,  little  realizing  how  deeply  the 
brand  of  Pauper  is  to  be  burned  into  its  after 
life. 

And  always  may  be  found  there,  gathered 
as  into  a  mouldering  corner,  the  relics  of  an 
once  vigorous  generation,  mumbling  the  broken 
histories  of  their  early  life,  crouching  in  dim 
and  shadowy  recesses,  chatting  of  happy 
times  such  as  this  world  will  never  bring  them 
again,  sitting  on  long  benches  in  the  sun  and 
idly  watching  the  flies,  and,  let  us  hope,  now 
and  then  catching  a  glimpse  of  the  far-off  re- 
ality which  they  fondly  believe  will  one  day 
be  theirs. 


264  HOMESPUN. 

Heaven  keep  all  of  us  clear  of  the  Poor- 
house  !  It  is  a  place,  the  sight  of  which  can 
check  the  current  suddenly  in  young  veins. 
Distinct  and  lonely  it  stands  out  in  the  plane 
of  the  thoughts,  just  as  it  does  in  the  lap  of 
the  landscape.  It  has  no  other  effect  than  to 
excite  inward  fears  and  bring  on  sudden  creep- 
ings  and  shudderings.  There  is  no  token 
whatever,  within  it  or  about  it,  of  the  blessed 
life  that  lies  concealed  in  the  single  word  — 
HOME  !  a  word  that,  next  to  Mother,  lives  and 
lingers  longest  in  the  human  heart. 


THE  DISTRICT  SCHOOL. 

rilHAT  noted  polygamist  and  wife-murderer, 
-•-  known  as  Henry  the  Eighth,  did  no  more 
for  the  cause  of  learning  in  Old  England  when 
he  invited  Erasmus  over  to  take  a  Greek  Pro- 
fessorship at  Oxford,  than  our  puritan  an- 
cestry, when  they  built  the  first  school-house 
in  the  New  England  woods.  Through  its  hum- 
ble door  has  passed  the  power  that  is  to-day 
engaged  in  conquering  and  civilizing  the  con- 
tinent. 

At  the  time  when  7  knew  it,  the  little 

red  school-house  stood  at  the  fork  of  the  road ; 
and  though  there  were  other  school-houses  in 
other  districts  of  the  town,  this  was  accounted 
the  only  one  of  which  special  mention  was 
thought  worthy  to  be  made. 

Mr.  John  Porringer  —  a  man  somewhere 
within  the  broad-growing  shadows  of  forty- 
five  years  —  "kept"  this  school,  and  was  in 
the  way  of  keeping  it  so  long  as  he  lived  and 
liked.  The  notion  seemed  to  have  taken  root 


266  HOMESPUN. 

in  town,  that  he  held  a  sort  of  life-lease  of  the 
building,  if  it  should  be  used  so  long  for  the 
ends  of  education.  If- —  here  and  there  — 
one  and  another  did  rub  his  eyes  and  wonder 
if  nobody  else  could  keep  that  school  as  well 
as  Mr.  John  Porringer,  an  opiate  was  newly 
administered  by  some  mysterious  process,  and 
people  soon  forgot  to  ask  the  question  alto- 
gether. 

A  seven-by-nine  vestibule,  constructed  of 
rough  boards,  contained  the  pail  of  water,  with 
the  bright  tin  dipper  bobbing  about  on  the  sur- 
face, —  while  all  over  its  three  sides  pegs  and 
nails  were  driven,  that  bore  large  crops  of  juve- 
nile clothing,  assorted  and  graded  to  the  ages 
and  sizes  of  its  wearers.  In  winter  you  might 
have  mistaken  it  for  a  shop,  where  some  dealer 
kept  sleds  and  skates  to  sell :  and  the  junks  of 
snow  brought  in  on  the  stout  boots  of  the  boys 
would  have  charmed  even  a  school  committee 
all  the  way  from  Nova  Zernbla  on  runners. 

In  the  summer  time  Mr.  Porringer  surrend- 
ered his  rule  and  frown,  and  went  to  ploughing 
and  hoeing  and  laying  stone  wall  on  the  farm, 
thereby  making  an  opening  for  somebody  of 
secondary  ability.  The  larger  boys  and  girls 
being  in  demand  at  home  during  the  warm 
months,  in  a  general  way,  a  quiet  female 


THE  DISTRICT  SCHOOL.  267 

teacher  was  thought  equal  to  the  manage- 
ment of  the  few  small  ones  remaining  ;  and 
the  town  paid  her  at  the  rate  of  two  dollars 
per  week  with  the  privilege  of  "  boarding  her- 
self." All  this  arrangement  was  but  little 
better  than  an  infant  school,  however,  to  which 
industrious  mothers  sent  their  weans  to  keep 
them  from  under  foot,  and  give  them  the 
chance  of  a  couple  of  sweet  naps  a  day  across 
the  hard  benches. 

The  school-room  was  in  its  blaze  of  glory  in 
the  winter.  Then  Mr.  Porringer  returned,  to 
resume  the  magisterial  badges,  —  the  royal 
sceptre  and  crown. 

He  was  a  picture,  and  so  stands  out 

before  my  eyes  to  this  day,  —  a  tall,  lank,  bony 
person,  with  feet  and  hands  of  pretty  similar 
dimensions ;  a  head  high  and  narrow,  with  a 
prodigious  phrenological  slope  from  the  crown  ; 
stiff,  straight  hair,  and  fiercely  black,  brushed 
in  a  peak  above  the  regions  of  his  intellect; 
with  a  long,  swallow-tail  coat,  worn  shiny  at 
elbows,  cuffs,  and  shoulder-blades ;  a  small, 
sharp  eye,  prowling  within  the  thickets  of  over- 
hanging eyebrows  ;  and  a  pair  of  feet  "  done 
up"  in  blue  woollen  socks  and  calf-skin  slip- 
pers :  —  these  formed  the  several  items  of  his 
scholastic  motley.  Yet  he  was  accounted  a 


268  HOMESPUN. 

wonder,  in  his  way.  Goldsmith's  village 
school-master  was  out  of  hail  entirely,  with 
all  his  acquaintance  with  the  "  rules,"  and  his 
unchallenged  skill  at  "  logic." 

As  he  called  out  the  classes  to  their  recita- 
tions in  the  forenoon,  he  had  a  bustling  trick  of 
spanking  a  book  across  his  palm  before  begin- 
ning the  exercise,  and  sounding  up  in  a  high 
key  — "  Now,  then,  let  's  see  who  's  going  to 
be  smart  to-day  ' " 

The  large  scholars  were  ranged  around  at 
desks  that  lined  three  sides  of  the  room  ;  while 
on  the  fourth  was  perched  the  sentry-box  he 
occupied  himself,  in  which  he  used  to  sit  and 
rap  with  his  ferule,  or  adroitly  pitch  heavy 
books  at  the  pates  of  astonished  offenders. 

The  everlasting  iron  stove  stood  out  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor,  roaring  as  it  always  roars 
when  over-fed,  and  radiating  wavering  columns 
of  heat  till  very  late  in  the  afternoons.  For 
their  own  good,  the  children  who  sat  about 
that  instrument  might  just  as  well  have  been 
crowded  into  its  own  fiery  bowels,  as  stowed 
in  that  suffocating  school-room.  If  there 
chance  to  be  any  of  them  on  the  planet  yet,  1 
need  not  ask  them  if  they  think  their  early 
school-house  baking  has  helped  them  to  see 
their  way  in  the  world  with  any  more  clear- 


THE  DISTRICT  SCHOOL.  269 

ness,  or  "  do  the  sums  "  of  life  with  any  more 
readiness  and  rapidity. 

The  little  fellows  on  the  low  benches  nearest 
the  stove  sat  as  still  as  mice  in  a  cupboard,  and 
went  on  industriously  roasting  their  heads  and 
shortening  their  lives.  Sometimes,  when  their 
faces  grew  as  red  as  pearrnain  apples,  they 
screened  them  with  their  speJling-books,  that 
were  carefully  covered  with  calico ;  or,  if  they 
grew  squirmy  in  the  process  of  roasting,  Mr. 
Porringer  sternly  rebuked  them,  declared,  with 
a  heavy  stamp  of  his  foot  and  in  a  loud  voice, 
that  there  must  be  no  noise,  and  very  often 
caught  up  his  ferule  and  shook  it  with  a  frown. 
Or,  again,  if  they  timidly  begged  to  go  into 
the  entry  and  get  a  drink  of  water  from  the 
pail,  he  seemed  to  take  a  secret  delight  in  re- 
fusing, telling  them  it  was  all  nonsense  for 
them  to  be  drinking  so  much  water  in  the 
winter  time.  Yet  he  permitted  himself,  now 
and  then,  to  go  to  the  door  for  a  snuff  of  fresh 
air,  or  to  enjoy  a  clean  and  cooling  drink,  and 
perhaps  lay  in  a  new  quid  of  Virginia  twist 
besides. 

Thus  and  there  did  they  bake  and  stew  and 
simmer  together.  Boys  on  one  side  of  the 
room,  and  girls  on  the  other.  Big  boys  and 
little  boys,  —  big  girls  and  little  girls.  The 


270  HOMESPUN. 

little  boys  looking  up  inquiringly  at  the  big 
ones,  to  learn  what  might  be  the  very  newest 
tricks,  —  and  little  girls  on  their  side  watching 
the  big  ones,  lest  something  worth  knowing 
might  escape  them.  Some  conning  their  les- 
sons with  an  intense  eagerness  that  would  make 
one  learned  in  less  than  a  winter's  season. 
Some  with  books  close  to  their  faces,  whisper- 
ing and  jabbering  and  working  their  jaws,  as 
if  they  conquered  their  tasks  by  the  process  of 
mastication.  Little  boys  slyly  sticking  pins 
through  their  neighbors'  trousers,  or  pulling  their 
flaxen  hair  where  it  would  go  straying,  or  chew- 
ing cuds  of  paper  and  snapping  them  spat 
against  the  ceiling,  to  make  the  girls  laugh. 

Above  the  din  rose  the  voice  of  Mr.  Porrin- 
ger,—  "  Next!  parse  Might  have  loved,  and  see 
if  you  can't  put  it  in  the  right  mood  and 
tense  !  "  —  a  matter  very  difficult  of  perform- 
ance even  by  learners  much  older  than  any 
who  sat  on  those  benches.  A  droning  hum 
rising  in  the  ears  from  all  quarters  of  the  room, 
like  the  dry  heat  simmering  up  from  the  stove 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  A  shifting  scene 
of  faces,  —  some  older  and  some  younger, 
some  scowling  and  some  smiling, —  some 
studying  the  lessons  and  some  studying  mis- 
chief, —  yet  every  one  intent  on  getting 
through  at  the  easiest  rate. 


THE  DISTRICT  SCHOOL.  271 

And,  to  vary  the  picture  ever  so  little,  a 
broad-shouldered  negro  fellow  sitting  all  by 
himself  in  the  corner  next  the  door,  his  ebony 
countenance  fairly  sweating  fun  and  mischief 
at  every  pore.  He  was  the  "  black  top  "  of  the 
little  school  parish,  —  the  fifth  wheel  of  the 
educational  coach.  Over  the  top  of  his  slate 
his  twinkling  little  eyes  took  sly  observations, 
from  time  to  time,  of  what  was  going  on 
about  the  room,  and  he  laughed  under  his 
breath  at  any  trifling  trick  he  saw  played, 
though  sometimes  he  could  not  help  giving  a 
rip  of  laughter  that  drew  the  eyes  of  the  whole 
school  round  to  him  in  an  instant.  Then  he 
would  begin  innocently  to  spit  on  his  slate  and 
rub  out  his  "  sum,"  no  doubt  believing  it  rather 
an  odd  problem  even  in  mixed  mathematics. 

He  had  a  queer  way  of  lifting  his  entire 
scalp  when  he  chose  to  elevate  his  eyebrows, 
which  set  his  frizzled  pelt  in  such  comical 
motion  that  none  of  us  could  possibly  resist  it. 
Mr.  Porringer's  ruler  was  brandished  at  the 
little  fellows  pretty  often,  on  these  occasions, 
but  we  could  not  help  wondering  how  it  was 
he  never  seemed  to  see  our  African  exemplar. 
It  so  happened,  too,  —  as  it  very  often  does 
happen  in  such  cases,  —  that  this  same  negro 
was  as  clever  a  creature  as  any  human  being 


272  HOMESPUN. 

on  foot,  and  would  positively  have  done  him- 
self wanton  harm  as  soon  as  anybody  else ; 
yet  his  shining  skin  being  always  as  full  of 
drollery  as  a  fruit-rind  is  of  juice,  it  was  to  be 
expected  that  it  would  sometimes  overrun  for 
others'  innocent  merriment.  A  wonderful  fel- 
lo\v  he  among  the  boys,  grown  man  though  he 
was ;  and  although  he  worked  out  on  a  farm 
in  the  summer,  he  always  found  time  to  go 
fishing  with  them  on  the  rainy  days,  and  would 
gladly  be  off  all  night,  wading  the  low  streams 
with  birch-bark  torches  in  quest  of  suckers  and 
dace. 

Committee  Day  was  the  Red  Letter  day  of 
the  Winter's  calendar.  The  school  presented 
itself  then,  for  drill  and  review,  to  the  eyes  and 
ears  of  the  Minister,  the  Deacon,  and  some  one 
or  two  more  of  the  local  magnates,  whose  duty 
it  was  to  make  the  regular  inquisition  of 
school-affairs,  in  the  name  and  behalf  of  the 
town. 

Mr.  Porringer  used  to  set  on  foot  great  prep- 
arations for  this  event  of  the  year,  scouring 
up  the  little  knowledge  of  his  pupils  till  they 
scarcely  recognized  themselves  in  their  trans- 
formation. None  of  us  could  have  been  more 
nervous  over  our  expectations  than  he  was  for 
himself;  and  yet,  the  Committee  out  of  the 


THE  DISTRICT  SCHOOL.  273 

account,  nobody  could  be  more  positive  and 
despotically  dogmatic  about  his  knowledge 
than  this  same  Mr.  John  Porringer. 

When  this  dignified  body  of  (usually)  three 
men  entered,  looking,  as  somebody  ventures 
it,  as  "  wise  as  saws  and  modern  instances," 
if  not  a  trifle  more  so  than  that  even,  the 
Master  met  them  at  the  door ;  not  blandly,  as 
a  June  morning  gets  in  among  the  cherry-blos- 
soms, but  stiffly,  and  with  an  empty  dignity 
that  originated  with  nothing  and  amounted  to 
nothing.  Bowing,  with  one  hand  outstretched, 
towards  the  Committee,  he  lifted  the  other, 
which  held  his  book,  as  a  signal  for  the  school 
to  rise  in*respect ;  and  the  seating  of  that  body 
again  made  as  great  confusion  as  the  fainting 
of  a  lady  at  College  Commencement. 

The  classes  were  then  called  up,  —  all  the 
way  from  the  A,  B,  abs  to  the  students  in 
Arithmetic  and  Geography.  The  small  fry 
were  ordered  to  toe  a  crack  running  the  length 
of  the  oak  floor,  and  in  that  position  to  make 
their  "  manners."  It  was  so  seriously  done, 
that  I  cannot  keep  back  the  laugh,  even  now, 
in  recalling  it.  Some  of  the  answers  to  ques- 
tions were  given  by  the  larger  classes  in  a 
yell  of  unison,  loud  enough  to  scare  every 
stray  bear  from  the  back  settlements.  Then, 

18 


274  HOMESPUN. 

more  hickory  in  the  stove  —  more  roasting  of 
young  heads  —  and  more  internal  applications 
of  cold  water  from  the  dipper  in  the  entry. 

Finally,  the  recitations  over,  there  followed 
a  demand  from  Mr.  Porringer  for  "  silence !  " 
and  a  second  demand  upon  the  Committee  for 
"  any  remarks,"  &c.  The  homilies  there 
spoken,  I  well  remember,  were  German-text 
to  us  all ;  we  knew  nothing  what  they  meant, 
and  cared  nothing  whatever  for  them.  At  the 
end,  a  prayer  from  the  Minister,  —  a  general 
rising  of  the  school,  —  more  bowing,  —  and  a 
welcome  exit  through  the  outer  door. 

And  so  the  review  was  over. 

Mr.  Porringer  would  seal  up  the  eiitire  par- 
cel with  some  little  speech  of  his  own,  and 
thus  it  remained  until  visitation  day  came 
round  again  the  next  winter.  We  were  then 
let  out,  the  padlock  was  fastened  in  the  staple 
of  the  door,  the  fire  in  the  stove  went  down, 
and  we  saw  no  more  of  Mr.  Porringer  till  fully 
nine  o'clock  the  next  morning. 


COCK-CROW. 

COCK-A-DOODLE-DO  ! 

Where  away  is  the  morn, 

That  you  sound  your  clarion-horn?. 

Not  a  streak  of  light  in  the  east, 

Nor  the  faintest  ray 

Of  dappled  gray 

Is  yet  to  be  seen,  —  not  the  least. 
Three  o'clock  !  —  that  is  all ; 
And  still  you  sound  your  call 
To  all  within  the  house  to  wake, 
And  into  their  hearts  their  burdens  take, 
Before  ever  the  day  is  born! 
There  is  not  a  sign  of  the  dawn ; 
The  stars  are  burning  out,  't  is  true, 
But  no  eyes  see  the  day  yet  coming  through  ; 

The  world  is  fast  asleep  in  the  dark ; 

Not  so  much  as   the  sound  of   the  watch- 
dog's bark; 
And  still  this  Cock-a-doodle-do ! 

Cock-a-doodle-c?o  / 
The  first  rich  ray  of  red 


276  HOMESPUN. 

Has  fallen  across  the  shed  : 

And,  from  his  perch,  once  more  the  call 

Of  the  warder  that  keeps  watch  for  us  all. 

Shrill,  and  clear,  and  high  is  the  note 

From  out  that  regal  throat, 

Pulsing  its  echoes  everywhere 

Through  the  frosty  morning  air, 

Down  the  valley  clear  to  the  mill, 

And  away  to  the  top  of  the  nearest  hill. 

The  cattle  get  up  from  their  long  night's  bed, 

And  the  boards  of  the  floor  creak  overhead; 

The  horse  looks  out  from  his  darkened  stall, 

Like  a  lord  from  the  door  of  his  castle-hall ; 

Over  the  roof  curls  up  the  smoke 

That  tells  of  the  stir  of  thrifty  folk ; 

The  hens  on  their  perches  crowd  along, 

Aroused  by  their  lord's  resounding  song. 

And  now  the  sun's  clear,  golden  ray 

Falls  through  the  barn-chinks  on  the  hay; 

Into  the  pails  full  many  a  stream 

Of  milk,  that  is  rich  with  clotted  cream, 

Riddles  the  foam  in  a  zigzag  line, 

As  sweet  as  the  breath  of  the  yarded  kine. 

Cock-a-doodle-efo  / 
There  he  is,  on  the  garden  gate, 
Crest  erect,  and  spirit  elate ; 
The  rain  has  been  falling  all  the  day 
And  no  eye  now  can  thread  its  way 
To  any  rift  or  lift  in  the  clouds 


COCK-CROW.  277 

That  pack  the  concave  in  such  crowds  :  — 

But  chanticleer,  he  sees  the  sign, 

"Where  wisest  men  can  read  no  line  ; 

A  prophet,  with  an  instinct  high, 

He  keeps  the  secret  of  the  sky,  — 

A  favorite  child  of  Nature  he, 

That  knows  the  heart  of  her  mystery. 

And  at  that    Cock-a-doodle-do, 

And  cheery  flap  of  pinions,  too, 

The  household  to  the  windows  go, 

In  answer  to  the  call  they  know :  — 

The  sky  grows  brighter,  and  the  blue 

Comes  forth  at  Cock-a-doodle-do ! 

Cock-a-doodle-cfo  / 

The  rival  he  has  overthrown 

Goes  reeling  to  his  roost  alone ; 

And  he,  the  royal  conqueror, 

With  bloody  ruff  about  his  throat, 
Sends  forth  his  strong,  defiant  note 
To  Chanticleers  near  and  remote, 

On  every  farmer's  broad  barn-floor. 

No  shouts  from  the  walls  of  proud  old  Troy 

Were  ever  given  with  half  the  joy 

That  fills  the  heart  of  this  brave  bird, 

As  he  ma4ces  the  news  of  his  victory  heard. 

You  'd  think  he  was  some  baron  bold, 

From  whom  the  rest  their  tenures  hold, 

Proclaiming,  on  the  garden  wall, 

His  feudal  watch  and  ward  for  all. 


278  HOMESPUN. 

Cock-a-doodle-rfo  / 

No  house  is  Home,  without  that  horn 
To  sound  the  hours,  from  dawn  to  dawn. 
Before  the  eye  rise  curling  smokes, 
That  come  from  fires  of  country  folks, — 
A  stack  of  roofs,  —  a  low,  wide  door,  — 
The  thump  of  flails  on  a  big  barn-floor, — 
A  tented  field  of  corn  hard  by, 
About  whose  stacks  great  pumpkins  lie, — 
Hens'  nests  snug  hidden  in  the  hay, 
And  children  hunting  half  the  day,  — 
A  garden  filled  with  fruits  and  flowers, 
Where  birds  make  musical  the  hours,  — 
Good  cheer,  warm  welcomes,  and  bright  fires, 
That  fill  the  wishing  heart's  desires. 
Oh,  Chanticleer !  —  brave  Chanticleer ! 

Thy  voice  rings  through  all  History ; 

Outstarting  from  the  mystery 
Of  Indian  jungles,  dark  and  drear, 
Thy  path  has  lain  through  Greece  and  Rome 
To  the  door  of  every  farmer's  home ; 
They  stamped  thee  on  their  ancient  coins, 

And  offered  thee  in  sacrifice 

Unto  their  heathen  deities, 
That  sprung  from  mythologic  loins: 
And  "  Plato's  man "  thou  wert,  we  know, 
Above  two  thousand  years  ago ; 
And  Peter  felt  his  shameful  lie 
Reproved  by  thy  shrill,  chiding  cry, 
And  went  out,  weeping  bitterly. 


COCK-CROW.  279 

Thy  note  sends  every  ghost  to  bed. 
Afraid  to  show  its  guilty  head 
When  the  shadows  of  the  night  have  sped. 
They  set  thee  on  the  tallest  spires, 
Above  the  fog  of  earth's  desires, 
A  sort  of  lookout  in  the  sky, 
Interpreter  of  wet  and  dry, 
And  cheering  souls  to  victory. 

Thy  Cock-a-doodle-do,  it  rings 

Through  Winters,  Autumns,  Summers,  Springs; 

At  every  hearth,  in  every  heart, 

The  tenderest  feelings  take  a  start : 

Thou  mayst  not  be  the  bird  of  Jove,  — 

Thou  art  a  bird  that  all  men  love : 

There  is  no  fowl  that  walks,  the  peer 

Of  strutting,  crowing  Chanticleer ! 


BOOK   THIRD. 


BUCOLICS. 


1  Let  me  be  no  assistant  for  a  State, 
But  keep  a  Farm  and  Carters." 

SHAKSPEAEE  —  "  HAMLET." 


A  DAY'S   WORK  ON  THE  FARM. 

A  WELL-ORDERED  farm  is  a  little 
-£^-  republic,  having  its  President  and  its 
Ministers  of  State.  Every  day  brings  its  du- 
ties, recurring  with  the  rising  and  setting  of 
the  sun.  Matters  do  not  go  on  by  a  bell,  as  in 
a  rattling  factory  town  ;  but  they  come  round 
in  as  unbroken  an  order,  describing  as  perfect 
a  circle,  and  representing  as  momentous  inter- 
ests. 

At  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  Cock- 
crow. The  feathered  lord's  perch  is  in  the 
basement  of  the  barn,  and  his  clarion  sounds 
muffled  and  distant.  A  second,  awaiting 
but  this  well-known  signal  from  his  elder, 
erects  himself  proudly  beside  his  dames  and 
sounds  a  lustier  note,  with  a  strain  of  defiance 
in  it.  Then  a  third,  and  a  fourth  ;  and  pres- 
ently every  cock  that  has  sway  over  a  harem 
in  the  country  neighborhood  sends  forth  his 
shrill  token  of  the  coming  of  the  morn.  They 
call,  one  to  the  other,  from  farm  to  farm,  and 


284  HOMESPUN. 

from  hill-side  to  valley.  The  still  air  suddenly 
becomes  alive.  Every  barn-yard  gives  cheery 
welcome  to  the  breaking  day.  The  house- 
holds, far  and  wide,  awake,  and  know  that  the 
gates  of  the  day  are  soon  to  be  opened  wide. 

The  farmer  who  pretends  to  be  a  farmer 
indeed,  dresses  and  calls  his  help;  while  the 
housewife  is  pottering  over  pans  and  kettles 
in  the  kitchen,  making  ready  to  roast  and  fry, 
stew  and  bake,  in  the  big  fireplace  where  so 
many  rows  of  pot-hooks  hang  from  the  crane. 
The  men  trudge  off,  half  awake,  to  the  cow- 
yard,  and  the  milk  is  soon  churning  into  the 
foaming  pails  between  their  knees.  About  the 
door  troop  old  hens  with  chickens  in  charge, 
clucking  and  scratching  as  busily  as  if  the 
whole  summer-day  were  not  before  them,  and 
no  bugs  and  flies  out  of  bed,  either.  The  cat 
goes  purring  around  the  kitchen  and  the  door- 
step, rubbing  herself  affectionately  against  one 
and  another,  and  tendering  expressions  of  her 
joy  at  seeing  the  family  about  once  more. 

When  the  hired  men  and  boys  have  soused 
their  heads  in  the  freshly  drawn  water  that 
stands  on  the  bench  outside,  and  the  milking 
is  done,  they  go  to  the  sheds  and  barns  and 
out-buildings  to  get  ready  the  tools  with  which 
their  day's  work  is  to  be  accomplished. 


A   DATS   WORK   ON  THE  FARM.     285 

Whether  it  be  over  carts  and  chains  and  har- 
rows and  ploughs,  or  scythes  and  cradles  and 
rakes  and  wagons,  the  yard  is,  for  some  little 
time,  a  scene  of  life  and  bustling  activity. 

All  this  while,  too,  preparations  are  making 
in  the  house  for  breakfast;  and  when  it  is 
finally  announced,  and  the  feet  of  hungry  men 
have  been  scraped  at  the  door,  the  work  at  the 
board  suggests  nothing  so  much  as  the  work 
in  the  fields  afterwards.  The  eating  is  not 
minced,  if  the  meat  is.  Every  dish  has  a  rel- 
ish of  its  own.  A  piece  of  cold  meat  is  a 
piece  of  cold  meat,  to  be  eaten  without  mis- 
givings of  dyspepsia  and  indigestion.  Simple 
as  the  table  is,  it  is  loaded  with  the  fat  of  the 
land.  Who  that  knows  new  milk  and  fresh 
cream,  yellow  butter  or  new-laid  eggs,  but 
takes  in  the  picture  with  a  single  recollection  ? 

If  it  be  Spring-time,  —  when  buds  are  burst- 
ing, and  leaves  expanding  to  the  sun,  and 
steamy  smokes  are  working  up  from  valley 
and  hill-side,  and  calves  are  bleating  from  the 
yard  for  mothers  that  call  them  from  the  pas- 
tures, and  life  sparkles  again  in  the  running 
brooks,  and  waters  glisten  in  little  pools  all 
about  the  lowlands,  —  the  man  of  the  hard 
hands,  but  soft  heart,  is  turning  up  the  sod 
with  the  gleaming  share,  his  boy  astride  the 


286  HOMESPUN. 

old  plough-horse,  while  he  "  gees"  and  "  haws" 
the  yoke  of  cattle  himself;  or,  in  other  fields, 
sowing  his  grain'  with  the  hand  of  faith,  and 
walking  his  acres  in  the  spirit  of  a  lord. 

Then  the  bustle  is  in  the  barns,  the  sheds, 
the  corn-cribs,  and  the  cellars,  where  they  sort 
their  seeds,  prepare  the  corn  with  plaster  for 
planting,  and  slice  baskets  of  potatoes,  for 
burial  in  the  hills.  Horses  are  hitched  into 
this  and  into  that ;  cattle  straggle  over  the 
yard,  rattling  their  yoke-rings ;  wagons  are 
rolled  out,  and  others  dragged  in  ;  the  turkeys 
are  stealing  off  to  find  places  for  nests ;  and 
hens  are  cackling  over  the  egg  apiece  they 
have  hidden  away  with  such  pains  on  the 
barn  scaffolds.  Withal,  the  sun  glows  warm 
and  cheerful,  and  the  heart  expands  and  be- 
comes more  genial  in  the  influence  of  its  pene- 
trating heat. 

All  day  long  they  plough  and  harrow  and 
olrop  seeds,  and  cover  with  the  hoe.  The  boys 
are  very  tired  before  night  falls,  and  come 
pretty  near  falling  asleep  while  they  wash 
their  feet  out  the  door  at  evening.  Little 
enough  money  goes  toward  candles  after  sup- 
per, for  all  hands  are  glad  enough  to  go  off  to 
bed  pretty  soon  after  their  day's  work  is  over. 
And  the  whole  house  shortly  becomes  silent 


A  DAY'S   WORK  ON  THE  FARM.      287 

again,  —  the  silver  moon,  perhaps,  throwing 
over  its  spreading  roof  a  silent  blessing. 

Or,  in  the  Autumn,  the  days  are  just 

as  full  of  activity  and  life.  Harvesting  has 
somewhat  of  sentiment  in  it.  A  man  cannot 
walk  among  the  spires  of  his  rustling  corn,  or 
pile  the  yellow  pumpkins  in  his  creaking  wain, 
or  stand  out  solitary  and  alone  in  the  glorious 
landscape,  looking  dreamily  on  the  bewildering 
colors  of  distant  woods  and  forests,  without 
feeling  his  heart  fill,  and  at  times  even  his  eyes 
overflow. 

The  corn  goes  into  the  cribs,  slender  and 
golden.  The  apples  are  rolled  away  in  bar- 
rels, or  emptied  into  bins  for  early  using.  The 
potatoes  are  digged  and  carried  off  to  the  cel- 
lars. Stalks  are  stacked  in  spare  places  about 
the  barns  and  sheds,  and  the  bouncing  pump- 
kins are  rolled  all  over  the  barn-floor.  Then 
every  space  is  filled;  the  harvest  has  been 
abundant,  and  the  granaries  are  ready  to  burst 
with  the  superfluity.  The  cattle  begin  to 
come  in  from  the  pastures,  and  stand  grouped 
near  the  bars,  idly  butting  one  another  with 
their  horns. 

There  is  no  telling  how  long  the  fine  weather 
is  to  last,  nor  how  soon  the  dull  fall  rains  and 
blustering  snows  may  be  upon  them ;  therefore 


288  HOMESPUN. 

the  farmer  holds  steadily  to  his  work  from 
morning  till  night,  —  going  and  coming,  filling 
and  emptying  continually.  Now  he  can  see 
the  delightful  fruits  of  his  summer's  labor.  He 
finds  that  his  returns  are  enriching  him,  and 
that  poverty  and  want  are  exiled  from  his 
hearth,  at  least  during  the  coming  winter. 

In  the  haying  season,  which  every  one 

knows  to  be  the  hardest  of  the  year,  the 
women  clear  the  breakfast-table  as  soon  as  the 
meal  is  over,  wash  up  the  dishes,  and  hurry  to 
finish  their  tasks  at  the  churn  or  cheese-tub. 
Or,  taking  time  by  the  forelock,  they  go  about 
getting  dinner,  —  no  sentimental  task,  where 
there  are  from  six  to  a  dozen  hungry  haymak- 
ers to  be  fed.  So  into  the  garden  they  go  for 
the  vegetables,  —  cabbages,  peas,  beets,  early 
beans,  and  whatever  else  offers  to  their  dex- 
trous hands.  Having  digged  the  potatoes,  the 
boys  are  off  in  the  field  with  the  mowers. 

By-and-by,  pots  are  boiling,  and  the  fire  is 
crackling ;  the  kitchen  is  as  hot  as  roast,  and 
the  good  wife's  face  glows  with  the  burnish  of 
a  ripe  tomato.  The  daughters  are  at  the  sink, 
or  going  here  and  there  to  save  steps  for  their 
mother.  By  the  middle  of  the  forenoon,  the 
boys  come  in  to  carry  luncheon  to  the  hay- 
makers, packed  in  a  great  market-basket,  — 


A   DAY'S    WORK   ON  THE  FARM.      289 

bread-and-butter,  cheese,  cold  meats,  and  ap- 
ple pies.  In  a  pail,  or  a  stone  pitcher,  is  the 
sweetened  water,  black  with  syruppy  richness, 
and  flecked  all  over  its  surface  with  little  float- 
ing islands  of  ginger. 

They  all  go  off  together,  in  the  morning, 
down  the  road,  or  the  lane,  till  they  come  to 
the  bars  through  which  they  are  to  turn  in. 
It  is  not  long  before  they  have  swung  their 
scythes  and  taken  their  positions ;  and  you 
can  catch  the  hoarse  ring  of  their  blades  as 
they  go  rasping  and  cutting  through  the  waist- 
high  grass.  It  is  done  as  by  magic.  The 
face  of  the  whole  field  is  changed  in  a  few 
hours.  The  grass  lies  heavy  and  wet  in  the 
swathes,  and  men  and  boys  are  spreading  it, 
with  pitchforks  and  rake-handles,  in  the  scorch- 
ing sun.  At  intervals  you  can  hear  the  noise 
of  the  rifling  of  the  scythes,  sounding  in  the 
distance  like  a  strain  of  music  in  the  airs  of 
the  July  morning  ;  musical,  because  so  in  har- 
mony with  the  scene  and  the  season. 

The  morning  being  well  spent,  the  workers 
withdraw  beneath  some  spreading  tree,  —  a 
maple,  or  a  young  hickory,  or,  perchance,  an 
ancient  meadow  elm,  —  and  there  on  the  clean, 
sweet  grass  eat  and  drink  their  forenoon  fill, 
not  unmindful  of  the  coming  dinner  and  the 

19 


290  HOMESPUN. 

nooning  spell.  The  basket  is  well  rummaged 
and  lightened  ;  the  stone  pitcher  passes  from 
hand  to  hand,  every  long  draught  lowering  the 
sweet  tide  till  little  is  left  but  the  ridges  of  gin- 
ger that  have  been  stranded  on  its  throat  and 
sides.  A  few  jokes  —  a  little  laughter — a 
passage  of  half- play  with  the  boys  as  they 
stretch  themselves  on  the  grass,  —  and  work  is 
resumed  again. 

From  that  time  until  the  dinner-horn  sounds, 
no  tented  field,  whether  of  tourney  or  military 
encampment,  ever  furnished  a  busier  or  more 
picturesque  spectacle.  The  sun  flames  high 
overhead,  pouring  down  almost  perpendicularly 
its  fervid  streams.  Lines  of  heat  dance  and 
waver  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach  across  the 
slopes  and  plain,  and  seem  to  open  wider  the 
million  pores  as  you  regard  their  dizzy  motion. 

When  the  horn  blows,  the  men  stack  their 
implements  of  husbandry  in  the  nearest  shade, 
and  go  home  in  the  wagons,  or  straggling  back 
up  the  lane,  a  wearier  phalanx  than  when  they 
came  forth  in  the  dewy  morning.  They  have 
done  much  work  in  those  few  hours,  and  done 
it  well. 

The  "  women-folks  "  have  got  through  their 
steaming  forenoon  labors  over  the  dinner,  and 
now  stand  ready  to  wait  on  the  hearty  fellows 


A   DAY'S    WORK  ON  THE  FARM.     291 

who  are  returned  to  test  the  bounty  and  qual- 
ity of  their  culinary  skill.  Having  drawn  up 
to  the  board,  the  laborers  find  the  meats  al- 
ready carved,  and  fall  to  with  a  relish  such 
as  no  dainty  appetite  ever  found  in  the  bottom 
of  a  bitters-bottle. 

All  sorts  of  vegetables,  smoking  hot ;  pork, 
in  solid  fat  cuts,  right  out  of  the  deep  sound- 
ings of  the  barrel;  beef,  red  and  ripe,  and 
richly  streaked  with  fat  from  end  to  end  ;  white 
bread  and  brown,  in  piles  like  barricades  ;  and 
puddings  or  pies,  as  it  may  chance,  —  together 
with  such  other  garnish  as  is  to  be  found  in 
true  state  on  no  tables  but  those  of  the  lords 
of  the  land.  The  whole  board  is  a  parterre  of 
steams,  and  smokes,  and  fragrance  !  The  ap- 
petizing fumes  of  meat,  and  vegetables  steal 
through  doors  and  windows,  and  persist  in 
finding  their  way  even  into  the  "  best  room  " 
of  all  in  the  house. 

These  rugged,  robust  mowers  eat  very  much 
as  they  go  about  their  other  work ;  and  as 
soon  as  they  have  swallowed  their  last  mouth- 
ful, and  washed  their  throats  with  the  last 
draught  of  cold  water,  they  push  back  noisily 
in  their  chairs,  wipe  their  mouths  with  their 
sleeves,  and  catch  a  long  breath,  as  of  regret, 
to  recover. 


292  HOMESPUN. 

The  table  has  been  cleared  as  by  some  pro- 
cess of  magic.  .  The  pies  —  they  have  been 
whittled  in  pieces.  The  board  is  but  a  wreck 
of  fragments,  —  disjecta  membra  of  the  noon- 
day feast,  —  which  they  turn  their  backs  upon 
as  soon  as  they  have  been  surfeited,  going  out 
to  sit  upon  the  logs  before  the  door,  or  to  lie 
down  for  a  little  upon  the  sun-checkered  grass. 

By  afternoon,  the  hay  requires  turning  ;  oft- 
ener  before.  In  the  latter  case,  it  is  raked  into 
windrows  pretty  soon  after  dinner,  and  got 
ready  either  to  be  cocked  or  carried  in,  load  by 
load. 

When  the  pitching,  and  loading,  and  "  rak- 
ing after "  is  ready  to  be  done,  the  field  pre- 
sents a  sight  even  more  full  of  life  than  during 
the  morning.  This  they  all  consider  —  the 
boys  in  particular  —  the  very  jolliest  part  of 
the  day ;  for  now  the  hands  are  close  enough 
in  company  to  tell  their  old  country  stories 
.over  again,  and  pass  about  their  smoky  jokes. 
And,  by  the  help  of  such  stimulus,  the  big, 
round  loads  of  sweet  hay  go  off  out  of  the 
field,  one  by  one,  and  all  are  carefully  "  mowed 
away  "  for  winter's  use  beneath  the  broad  barn 
roof. 

With  still  another  wash  and  thorough  face- 
scrubbing  at  the  bench  without  the  back  door, 


A   DAY'S   WORK   ON  THE  FARM.     293 

they  all  pass  in  to  supper.  It  is  ready  for 
them  at  sundown,  and  has  cost  but  little  time 
in  its  preparation.  The  women  have  been 
sewing  and  chatting  through  the  afternoon, 
sitting  in  a  clean,  cool  room,  and  quite  as  busy 
at  their  work  as  were  the  "  men  folks "  at 
theirs. 

Though  the  supper  is  frugal  and  plain,  it  is 
ample  and  good.  They  come  to  it  with  a 
relish.  Meat  for  the  third  —  fourth  time  dur- 
ing the  day.  Such  as  prefer  milk  may  dip  it 
from  a  large  pan  for  themselves,  and  eat  the 
crumbled  and  sopped  bread  out  of  it  till  they 
are  full.  After  supper,  the  milking  of  the 
cows,  already  yarded  ;  then  a  short  stroll  about 
the  premises  through  the  hushed  twilight  hour ; 
and  finally,  tired  and  fagged,  to  welcome  beds 
under  the  roof.  If  any  men  do  indeed  enjoy 
sleep,  they  are  the  haymakers.  It  comes  sweet 
and  undisturbed  to  their  heavy  lids,  with  no 
nightmares  to  make  sounding  rapids  in  its 
placid  current. 

A  day's  work  on  a  farm,  at  any  season 

in  the  year,  is  no  "  gentleman's  "  work  at  all, 
but  the  hardest  that  can  be  done.  Mechanical 
inventions  are,  to  be  sure,  doing  much  to  re- 
lieve the  husbandman ;  yet  no  such  go-be- 
tweens can  remove  the  care,  and  anxiety,  and 


294 


HOMESPUN. 


personal  labor  of  it  all ;  and  no  man  knows  of 
what  he  talks,  when  he  thinks  to  go  about 
farming  as  he  would  go  off  to  fish,  —  lazily, 
and  brimming  over  with  sentiment  and 
dreams. 


FARMERS'    WIVES. 

IN  this  country,  the  wife  of  the  farmer  stands 
at  the  head  of  society.  She  may  not  know 
it,  yet  it  is  gospel  truth.  Beginning  back  with 
the  foundation,  or  elements,  of  our  social  sys- 
tem, we  find  that  she  is  at  the  bottom  of  all 
the  bold  and  brave  enterprises  that  have  made 
us  great,  and  has  sustained  the  burden  and 
heat  of  the  whole  day  in  our  national  growth 
and  advancement.  And  it  is  because  she 
has  had  the  making  of  the  men,  training  and 
moulding  them  from  the  very  gristle  of  boy- 
hood. 

She  has  carried  the  entire  fabric  in  her 
heart ;  since  upon  her  have  our  heroes  relied, 
and  to  her  looked  for  the  sweetest  approbation. 
The  wives  of  the  farmers  were  the  real  Women 
of  the  Revolution,  of  whom  never  can  too 
much  be  said  in  praise.  Little  or  nothing 
could  have  been  done  without  their  aid. 

The  wife,  in  the  country,  is  the  one  being 
who  can  make  the  homestead  beautiful.  She 


296  HOMESPUN. 

calls  into  it  the  atmosphere  of  genuine  love. 
She  is  the  single  and  powerful  magnet,  by 
which  husband  and  children  are  attracted 
there.  She  can  make  all  things  bright  and 
lovely,  —  or  she  can  bring  down  cloudiness 
and  gloom,  put  everybody  in  the  sulks,  and 
set  the  whole  household  to  wishing  they  were 
established  somewhere  else. 

A  woman  can  do  as  much  as  that,  with 
great  ease,  anywhere ;  but  in  a  home  in  the 
country,  she  has  full  and  peculiar  power.  It  is 
not  so  easy  to  get  away  from  a  home  in  the 
seclusion  of  rustic  life,  that  is  notoriously  un- 
comfortable ;  but  in  the  changing  crowd  of  a 
large  city,  it  is  a  very  different  matter. 

Farmers'  wives  are  scarcely  aware  of  their 
influence ;  if  they  were,  they  might  at  times 
employ  it  to  better  immediate  purpose.  They 
practically  underrate  themselves,  to  begin  with. 
They  run  to  one  extreme,  and  consider  them- 
selves of  no  consequence  in  the  world  at  all ; 
and  then  they  run  to  the  other,  and  insist  that 
they  are  just  as  good  as  anybody  else.  Which, 
of  course,  they  are.  A  little  brush  —  the  least 
in  the  world  —  of  city  influence,  and  they  are 
all  in  a  flutter;  instantly  they  are  ready  to  for- 
get the  beauty  and  the  endearing  associations 
of  their  country  home-life,  and  to  make  them- 


FARMERS'    WIVES.  297 

selves  unhappy  with  envy  of  their  city  cousins' 
flounces  and  fanfaronade.  The  calm,  contem- 
plative, truly  religious  existence  they  enjoy  in 
the  heart  of  Nature,  they  undervalue  at  all 
points,  and  are  ready  to  exchange  it  for  the 
daily  view  of  stony  streets,  the  daily  sounds  of 
rattling  vehicles,  and  the  almost  positive  cer- 
tainty of  never  again  seeing  the  sun  either  rise 
or  set. 

But  there  is  a  reason  for  much  of  this 

unsettled  feeling  of  hers.  In  the  country, 
woman  is  made  too  much  a  mere  drudge.  It 
may  sound  all  very  romantic  and  sweet  to 
your  ears,  dear  madam,  to  hear  the  talk  of  the 
Arcadian  life  such  a  sister  must  lead,  away 
from  large  towns  and  their  frivolous  influen- 
ces, — :  but  it  is  not  such  a  life  as  you  allow 
your  imagination  to  dish  up  before  you.  Think 
what  it  is  for  a  woman  —  a  wife — to  milk  cows, 
to  suckle  calves,  and  sometimes  to  feed  the 
pigs ;  to  attend  regularly  on  the  ducks  and  chick- 
ens, besides  performing  various  other  chores  not 
altogether  in  harmony  with  her  feminine  na- 
ture. Then,  again,  the  same  tasks  —  always 
hard  —  follow  one  another  in  a  continuous 
round  from  morning  till  night,  one  day  upon 
another ;  and  she  must  be  different  from  the 
rest  of  her  sex,  who  can  help  offering  silent 


298  HOMESPUN. 

thanksgiving  when  God  draws  the  curtain  of 
night  for  the  world  to  lay  its  head  on  its  pillow 
and  go  to  sleep. 

The  English  country  ladies  —  we  have  all 
heard  about  them  ;  about  their  fresh  robust- 
ness, their  rosy  health,  and  their  overflow  of 
animal  spirits.  We  wish  one  half  as  good 
news  could  be  told  of  the  country  ladies  of 
America,  with  their  anxious,  care-worn  counte- 
nances, as  if  all  the  interests  of  the  farm  de- 
volved —  as  they  often  do  —  upon  themselves. 
In  a  good  many  cases  they  are  a  deal 
"  smarter  "  than  the  men,  and  take  the  man- 
agement out  of  their  hands.  They  can  reckon 
you  up  the  cost  and  value  of  a  hog,  or  a 
"critter,"  without  even  going  near  the  slate 
that  hangs  inside  the  pantry ;  whereas  their 
husbands  would  be  studying,  like  industri- 
ous Champollions,  all  the  sundry  chalk-marks 
about  the  house  and  shed,  in  hopes  of  getting 
at  what  they  wanted.  If  many  of  our  farmers 
are  asked  by  a  travelling  drover  what  they  will 
take  for  such  or  such  a  "  beef  critter,"  they 
will  show  in  a  moment  their  disinclination  (if 
not  their  inability)  to  sell,  without  first  con- 
sulting "  mother." 

In  this,  among  other  ways,  the  woman  in 
the  country  becomes  gradually  unfeminine,  — 


FARMERS'    WIVES.  299 

loses  a  certain  degree  of  that  bloomy  freshness 
which  so  charmingly  sets  off  female  character, 
—  mixes  in  with  the  roughness,  and  hardness, 
and  drudgery,  and  even  the  dirt  of  farm-work 
and  farm-life,  and,  in  the  lapse  of  time,  uncon- 
sciously parts  with  some  of  those  attractive 
qualities  which  should  be  found  as  elements  in 
the  character  of  every  lovable  female. 

But  to  describe,  rather  than  venture  on  the 
essayist's  ground :  —  Most  farmers'  wives  are 
up  last  at  night  and  earliest  in  the  morning. 
And  although  it  is  no  decent  man,  fit  to  call 
himself  an  American  farmer,  who  would  let 
his  wife  rise  first  and  make  the  fires  of  a  win- 
ter's morning,  yet  she  is  both  ambitious  and 
thrifty  enough  to  be  in  the  kitchen  very  soon 
after  he  is,  —  bustling  about  the  sink,  the  pots, 
the  kettles,  and  the  table,  making  the  usual 
breakfast  preparations,  and  arranging  generally 
for  the  progress  of  the  day's  work.  You  never 
catch  her  idle.  She  moves  twice  as  quick  as 
her  husband,  and  accomplishes  twice  as  much 
in  the  same  time. 

Breakfast  over,  the  day's  operations  begin. 
Every  day  is  much  like  every  other  day  in  the 
same  season.  The  milk  is  to  be  scalded  ;  but- 
ter is  to  be  churned  ;  dishes  are  to  be  washed, 
and  pots  and  kettles,  tables  and  trays  to  be 


300  HOMESPUN. 

scoured  ;  in  the  season,  the  young  chicks  are 
to  be  looked  after ;  the  children  must  have  their 
faces  washed,  and  be  sent  to  school ;  luncheon 
must  not  be  forgotten  for  the  workmen  in  the 
field;  dinner  must  be  hurried  into  the  pot  or 
oven ;  the  table  is  to  be  set  again  ;  then  it  is  to 
be  cleared  off;  then  the  sewing  must  be  done; 
or  company  rides  up  to  the  door  ;  and  the  little 
chicks  come  in  once  more  for  their  share  of 
daily  attention ;  and  the  children  hurry  home 
from  school,  as  hungry  as  young  bear  cubs ; 
and  the  table  must  be  set  for  tea  ;  and  the  cows 
must  be  milked  as  soon  as  they  come  up  to  the 
yard ;  and  the  business  of  the  day  must  be 
freely  talked  over  with  husband,  as  well  as  the 
plans  for  the  morrow  ;  and  the  little  ones  are 
to  be  got  off  to  bed  ; —  and  then  night  comes 
down  for  good  again  upon  the  whole  house- 
hold. 

This  is  the  quintessence  of  routine.  Little 
or  nothing  interposes  to  break  its  dull  monot- 
ony. Unless  the  interior  resources  are  rich  and 
ample,  the  life  lapses,  in  spite  of  one's  self,  into 
formal,  ancient,  and  plodding  practices,  and 
rarely  does  a  living  jet  of  fresh  experience 
enter  in. 

In  winter-time  it  seems  harder  for  the  good- 
wife  still,  for  then  the  days  are  —  oh  !  so  long; 


FARMERS'   WIVES.  301 

shortest  of  all  though  we  know  them  to  be  at 
the  coming  of  the  winter  solstice.  The  mo- 
notony for  the  spirits  is  like  the  stretching  fields 
of  snow  to  the  eyes,  —  reaching  afar  in  the 
bleak  distance,  without  a  sign  of  boundary  or 
neighborhood.  Well  might  the  wives  of  farm- 
ers keep  long  sticks  hanging  in  their  chimney- 
corners  on  which  to  notch  off  these  weary  days 
with  their  pale  sunshine,  as  they  slowly  pass. 

The  wintry  mornings  dawn  late,  with  nip- 
ping airs,  and  often  with  leaden  clouds  lying 
in  long  bars  just  above  the  horizon.  The  win- 
dows are  covered  with  all  sorts  of  devices  in 
frost-work,  and  breaths  blow  out  from  all 
mouths  in  volumes  of  steam.  If  a  fresh  snow 
has  fallen  during  the  night,  the  whole  world 
looks  so  still,  so  thoroughly  hushed,  and  so 
completely  buried  up,  that  the  snapping  and 
crackling  of  the  kindlings  on  the  logs  scarcely 
breaks  the  solemn  silence  of  the  time.  Then, 
whether  fingers  ache  with  the  cold  or  not, 
breakfast  is  to  be  made  ready  for  the  house- 
hold,—  often  with  but  a  single  pair  of  hands 
at  that.  The  girls  should  be  up,  and  they 
can  be  of  some  help  ;  but  I  do  not  incline  to 
believe  they  are  always  up  ;  —  their  huge,  puffy 
feather-beds  are  thoroughly  warmed,  and  the 
rosy  creatures  do  hate  awfully  to  climb  out  of 


302  HOMESPUN. 

them  early  in  the  morning,  on  the  icy  cold 
floor.  Now  and  then  the  boys  take  a  hand  at 
chopping  the  minced  meat,  or  help  peel  the 
smoking-hot  potatoes,  with  long  checked  aprons 
tied  close  under  their  chins. 

It  is  eight  o'clock  —  nine  o'clock  —  and 
even  ten  o'clock,  sometimes,  before  the  family 
work  is  fairly  set  in  motion  ;  and  then,  when 
steams  float  all  around  the  blackened  ceiling 
of  the  kitchen,  and  the  savors  of  stewing  pump- 
kins rise  from  the  hardly  covered  mouth  of  the 
great  kettle,  —  perhaps  there  are  sausages  to 
fill,  or  pork  to  pack  away  in  the  barrel,  or 
cheeses  to  finish  making,  or  butter  to  churn, 
or  some  other  such  labors  to  be  attended  to, 
any  one  of  which  is  sufficient  to  tax  the  ener- 
gies of  a  heroic  and  industrious  woman. 

The  "  men  folks  "  may  be  oif  at  work  in  the 
woods,  dragging  logs  and  chopping;  but  they 
realize  little  of  the  multiplying  cares  and  per- 
plexities that  are  sown,  thick  as  thistle-seed, 
around  the  steps  of  the  farmer's  wife,  every 
day.  Indeed,  it  is  a  great  deal  more  true  than 
one  generally  thinks,  that  if  a  farmer,  capable 
and  thrifty  himself,  gets  a  slovenly,  behindhand, 
incompetent  helpmeet,  nothing  under  the  stars 
will  save  his  farm  from  slowly  cankering  away 
under  the  application  of  mortgages.  It  is  the 


FARMERS'   WIVES.  303 

wife  who  is  the  farmer's  real  support,  after  all. 
She  either  makes  or  unmakes.  It  is  nothing 
to  the  point  that  he  manages  to  drive  good 
bargains  with  cattle,  horses,  muttons,  and  field 
products,  unless  she  who  sits  at  home,  and 
weaves  the  web  of  his  fortunes  for  him,  sec- 
onds with  earnestness  and  industry  all  his  plans 
and  purposes :  —  he  does  but  draw  water  for 
himself  in  sieves,  instead  of  buckets. 

Thus  the  farmer's  wife  stands  first  in  impor- 
tance in  our  agricultural  matters ;  and  every- 
body knows  full  well  that  agriculture  is  the 
only  base  and  bottom  of  civilized  society. 

Then,  in  the  family  group,  she  shapes,  colors, 
and  directs  everything.  The  youthful  character 
is  in  her  hands  altogether.  Whether  by  an  as- 
sumed or  a  conceded  authority,  she  is  the  head 
and  front  of  the  family.  She  is  the  heart  of 
the  household,  if  she  is  not  the  head  as  well. 
She  not  only  bakes  and  brews,  but  she  trains 
boys  and  girls  in  those  simple,  temperate,  and 
oftentimes  Spartan  habits,  which  subsequently 
project  themselves  with  the  force  of  a  new  in- 
dividuality upon  the  destinies  of  the  outside 
world. 

This  is  the  province  of  the  farmer's  wife, — 
no  more,  and  no  less.  It  does  not  fall  to  her 
lot  to  do  nothing  but  make  butter  and  cheese, 


304  HOMESPUN. 

knit  stockings  and  spin  wool,  away  off  in  the 
country  solitudes ;  but  she  is  scattering  about 
her,  every  day  of  her  life,  the  seeds  of  a  grain 
whose  products  are  not  for  a  day,  but  for  all 
time.  If  only  she  saw  it  so  for  herself,  what  a 
change  it  would  work  in  her  tasks  and  her  lot ! 
How  fresh  her  resolution  would  become,  — 
how  perpetually  revived  and  renewed  her  pur- 
poses! Instead  of  bewailing  her  hard  fortune, 
off  in  such  monotonous  and  dismal  retirements, 
she  would  rather  seem,  in  her  own  eyes,  to  sit 
like  a  queen  at  the  heart  of  Nature,  silently 
guiding  and  fashioning  the  forces  that  are  cer- 
tain, in  good  time,  to  control  the  whole  social 
system. 

"  Drudgery!  everlasting  drudgery!  "  — 

so  the  country  wives  exclaim  continually.  Nor 
can  it  exactly  be  wondered  at,  either.  Still, 
there  is  something  beside  drudgery  in  it,  to 
one  who  knows  how  and  is  determined  to 
ennoble  herself,  and  exalt  her  occupation.  Life, 
we  agree,  is  chiefly  made  up  of  little  things ; 
but  even  these  may  be  lifted  up  by  the  soul  of 
love,  and  made  glorious. 

But  the  husband  and  head  is  as  much  at 
fault  as  anybody  else.  He  insists,  dogmatic- 
ally ;  he  exacts ;  he  lays  on  the  heavy  burdens  ; 
he  sometimes  even  tyrannizes; —  he  is  the  sin- 


FARMERS'    WIVES.  305 

gle  dead  weight  upon  the  frail  shoulders  of  the 
woman.  It  is  not  to  be  gainsayed  or  explained 
away,  —  he  shuffles  off  too  much  of  the  coarse 
labor  upon  her,  consenting  to  make  her  the 
packhorse  of  the  family  establishment,  the  real 
beast  of  burden  in  all  his  domestic  and  farming 
plans.  Out  of  it  come,  of  course,  low  spirits, 
an  overworked  constitution,  total  indifference 
to  the  high  ends  and  aims  of  life,  and  a  gradual 
and  almost  entire  loss  of  the  true  spiritual  fac- 
ulty. 

Such   should  be  the  case   no   longer. 

The  wife  should  stand,  everywhere,  for  what 
is  pure  and  sweet,  for  what  is  innocent  and 
holy ;  not  one  whit  less  so  in  country  than  in 
town  ;  nay,  even  more  so  in  those  delightful 
rural  retreats,  and  amid  those  untainted  influ- 
ences which  God  sends,  like  delicious  fragrance, 
to  keep  sweet  the  atmosphere  wherein  the  hu- 
man soul  is  obliged  for  a  time  to  dwell. 

Especially  is  it  idle  to  speak  in  disparage- 
ment of  the  farmer's  wife.  Her  city  sister  can 
display  her  silks,  her  carriage,  and  her  list  of 
"  friends ; "  but  what  are  they  all,  in  the  light 
of  that  sincere  simplicity,  that  serene  beauty 
of  life,  in  which  the  country  wife  is  privileged 
to  dwell  and  rejoice  all  her  days  ? 
20 


FARMERS'  DAUGHTERS. 

GOD  bless  them,  every  one  ! 
It  is  an  involuntary  exclamation,  —  but 
what  of  that  ?     Is  it  not,  therefore,  the  sincerer 
speech  of  the  heart? 

The  rosy  creatures,  buxom  and  clear  of  com- 
plexion,—  their  souls  in  their  eyes  and  their 
hearts  in  their  hands.  —  robust  and  bouncing, 
—  vigorous  and  hearty  —  overflowing  with  life, 
and  health,  and  genuine  beauty !  You,  my 
pretty  town  cousin,  may  pout  "  coarse ! " 
about  them  ;  but  that  is  only  a  conventional 
word ;  it  does  n't  mean  the  same  thing  in  any 
two  places.  But  there  are  some  few  things 
about  them  which  we  do  like  ;  —  they  are  sim- 
ple, and  timid,  and  thoroughly  natural.  Bet- 
ter, a  thousand  times,  for  the  hopes  of  the 
world,  that  the  mothers  of  the  coming  genera- 
tions be  awkward  with  their  stores  of  health, 
than  so  very  fine,  sentimental,  and  dawdling. 
The  boys  and  girls  who  have  not  yet  opened 
their  bright  eyes  on  the  day,  will  liVe  to  give 


FARMERS'  DAUGHTERS.  307 

thanks  to  the  country  girls  of  the  present  gen- 
eration for  their  priceless  inheritance  of  physical 
robustness  and  activity.  The  gigantic  projects 
of  the  coming  years  will  owe  their  final  suc- 
cess to  the  stout  constitutions  and  high  spirits 
which  the  maidens  of  our  day  are  capable  of 
transmitting. 

You  can  find  them  back  from  the  towns 
and  cities  to-day ;  on  solitary  cross-roads ;  in 
low-roofed  houses,  a  mile  or  more  apart;  on 
large  farms,  superintending  the  dairy,  the 
kitchen,  or  the  poultry  department;  girls  not 
put  out  to  a  term  df  hard  service  exactly,  nor 
yet  kept  in  for  a  similar  purpose  ;  but  quietly 
and  happily  attending  to  domestic  duties  in  a 
domestic  way  ;  contented,  in  that  contentment 
furnishes  bliss  of  the  serenest  sort ;  trustful 
with  their  affections ;  disposed  to  look  on  the 
bright  side  of  things  ;  full  of  song  to  over- 
flowing, from  morning  till  night;  with  red 
cheeks  in  summer  and  winter  alike  ;  attached, 
with  a  sort  of  devotion,  to  home  and  all  its 
endearing  associations  ;  and,  all  things  consid- 
ered, the  brightest  beauties  that  illuminate  the 
pathway  of  parents  and  the  neighborhood. 

Such  are  our  farmers'  daughters,  —  the  best 
of  them.  They  are  not  all,  or  altogether,  after 
this  picture ;  yet  the  exceptions  are  by  no  means 


308  HOMESPUN. 

to  be  found  so  much  fault  with.  Those  sam- 
ples which  we  have  made  rapid  studies  of,  — 
as  you  can  find  them  all  through  our  Northern 
States,  and  New  England  especially,  —  are 
really  models  of  their  sex.  Perhaps  a  trifle 
too  timid  ;  perhaps  not  quite  at  ease  in  all 
kinds  of  society ;  perhaps  unaware,  too,  of  the 
fresh  and  innocent  beauty  that  breathes  and 
speaks  from  face  and  form  ;  —  still,  as  the  town 
is  driven  to  make  regular  drafts  on  the  country 
for  its  men,  so  is  it  obliged,  and  so  will  it  al- 
ways be  obliged,  to  go  back  through  the  same 
green  lanes,  and  over  the  same  grassy  fields, 
and  into  the  same  brown  houses,  for  its 
mothers  for  the  generations  that  are  yet  to 
come.  We  cannot  rejoice  too  much  that  it 
is  so. 

But  it  ought  to  be  stated  that  a  farm- 
er's girl  in  these  days  is  not  what  a  farmer's 
girl  used  to  be.  Once,  she  was  tied  down  to 
paring  apples  and  slicing  them  for  the  string, 
to  spinning  flax  and  wool,  to  indiscriminate 
scullery  labors,  and  to  work  which  is  now 
thought  not  in  all  cases  the  very  easiest  or 
best  for  her.  Now,  the  spinning  is  not  per- 
formed in  the  farmer's  kitchen,  the  apples  are 
pared  and  cored  by  machinery,  the  hard  work 
is  carried  off  by  the  hired  "  help,"  and  a  general 


FARMERS'  DAUGHTERS.  309 

spirit  of  refinement  is  slowly  working  its  way 
in.  One  readily  detects  it  in  the  changed  look 
of  the  door-yards.  It  smiles  forth  a  confession 
in  the  gay  masses  of  flowers  that  are  tended 
with  such  care  during  the  warm  season.  It 
betrays  itself  in  the  disposition  to  read  more, 
to  be  less  timid  and  shy,  to  establish  something 
like  a  truly  social  state  and  neighborhood,  and 
to  court  those  graces  which,  always  and  every- 
where, imply  a  generous  culture  on  the  part 
of  those  who  give  them  attention. 

And,  just  in  this  place,  it  is  impossible 

to  keep  out  of  mind  the  influence  which  one 
graceful,  beautiful,  and  pure-minded  woman 
exerts  in  a  home  in  the  country.  There  could 
be  no  home,  without  her  presence.  No  desert 
land  could  be  more  utterly  desolate.  She 
throws  around  the  dwelling  whatever  silent, 
but  eloquent,  charms  belong  to  her  individual 
character.  From  her  person  itself  radiates  an 
atmosphere  that  seems  to  make  of  all  things  a 
heaven.  By  her  look,  —  by  her  smile  alone, 
she  is  able  to  light  up  any  spot,  and  diffuse 
cheerfulness  where  man,  by  himself,  would  be 
but  a  melancholy  hermit.  Where  she  lives, 
roses  blow  in  the  earliest  summer,  and  greenest 
grass  creeps  to  the  very  door.  The  buttercups 
and  dandelions  inframe  her  dwelling  with  a 


310  HOMESPUN. 

border  of  gold,  as  if  the  very  earth  at  her  feet 
were  a  mine  of  yellow  wealth  for  her.  Chil- 
dren's footsteps  patter  where  she  goes,  and 
merry  voices  are  to  be  heard  on  every  hand. 
LIFE  accompanies  her,  surrounds  her,  and  fol- 
lows in  her  train.  Beauty  walks  in  her  path: 
Happiness  hovers  about  her  presence,  and  there 
is  hope,  and  rest,  and  peace  only  where  she  is. 

A  thriving  farmer  of  these  times  is 

ambitious  to  give  his  daughters  all  the  advan- 
tages he  can  secure  for  them ;  so  he  consults 
friends  and  the  passing  catalogues,  and  resolves 
on  sending  them  to  as  good  schools  as  are  to 
be  found  for  the  hunting.  But  every  mother's 
daughter  of  them  knows  how  to  make  and 
bake  bread,  before  she  goes.  And  as  soon  as 
their  term  of  "schooling"  is  over,  and  they 
have  taken  a  little  time  to  recruit  their  strength 
by  a  reasonable  respite  at  the  old  homestead, 
they  are  competent  to  take  charge  of  all  the 
incipient  households  to  which  they  are,  gener- 
ally, soon  after  called. 

But  not  all  have  the  luck  —  good  or  bad  —  to 
go  away  to  school.  What  they  get,  by  way  of 
"  education,"  they  get  near  home,  in  their  own 
district,  and  then  set  up  for  teachers  themselves, 
during  the  summer  months,  under  the  auspices 
of  very  dignified  School  Committees.  They 


FARMERS'  DAUGHTERS.  811 

go  through  the  sing-song  routine  of  teaching 
little  ones  how  to  read  and  spell,  —  perhaps 
they  instruct  the  girls  in  plain  sewing  like- 
wise, —  and  afterwards  subside  into  the  occu- 
pation of  active  assistants  in  their  own  respect- 
ive households. 

Sometimes  they  are  indispensable  at  home  ; 
in  which  case  they  are  held  fast  by  the  button 
of  affection,  and  by  sundry  other  inducements 
of  their  parents.  Very  soon  they  are  installed 
mistresses  in  their  own  native  homes,  and 
maintain  their  position  in  spite  of  even  the 
most  determined  efforts  of  admirers  to  entice 
them  away.  Very  many  such  we  used  to 
know,  who,  with  sacred  devotion  to  mother 
and  father,  have  consented  to  forego  all  their 
ambition,  —  world -wise,  —  and  consecrated 
their  lives  to  the  comfort  and  stay  of  the 
hearts  of  their  parents.  Beautiful  pictures  of 
the  true  filial  duty !  Yet  such  examples  are 
not  so  many  as  to  be  found  without  some  in- 
dustrious looking. 

We  wish,  from  our  hearts,  that  all  the  farm- 
ers' girls  could  have  the  advantages  they  so 
much  desire,  and  equally  deserve.  Some  of 
them  are  mere  stay-at-homes  in  the  quiet  old 
brown  houses,  and  look  out  over  the  green 
grass,  or  the  white  snow-drifts,  longing  and 


312  HOMESPUN. 

longing  to  see  somewhat  of  that  great  world 

—  so  restless,  too !  —  which  lies  beyond.    They 
are   true  to  their   daily   engagements  in   the 
kitchen ;  they  wash,  and  iron,  and  help  in  the 
dairy,  and  sew ;  they  make  beds,  wash  floors, 
set  things  to  rights,  run  to  the  windows  when- 
ever strangers  travel  the  road,  and  make  up  — 
first  and  last  —  the  life  and  light  of  the  house- 
hold.    When  you  take  your  brief  summer  ex- 
cursion into  the  country,  you  will   see  them 
standing  in  the  doors,  or  feeding  the  poultry  in 
the  back-yard,  perchance  hanging  out  the  wash- 
ing on  the  line,  with  sprawling  sun-bonnets  on 

—  rosy,  robust,  and    charming.       Their  faces 
confess  health,  and  their  forms  faultlessness. 

Just  under  the  hill-side  yonder,  now,  there  are 
three  young  girls  beneath  the  shelter  of  the 
same  roof.  The  farmer  himself  will  give  you 
warm  welcome,  and,  with  a  knowing  and 
humorous  nod,  tell  you  that  the  woman  across 
the  supper-table,  with  the  long  apron  on,  is  his 
wife.  Then  walk  in  Jane,  and  Lucy,  and  Bet- 
sey; you  see  they  stick  to  the  old-fashioned 
names.  They  drop  a  timid  courtesy,  fall  to 
fussing  over  their  collars  and  wristbands,  and 
run  about  the  room  to  make  you  —  and  them- 
selves, too  —  more  comfortable. 

Or,  if  it  happens  to  be  before  supper,  and 


FARMERS'  DAUGHTERS  313 

perhaps  a  winter's  evening  too,  you  sit  waiting 
in  the  chimney-corner,  until  the  table  is  spread 
and  ready.  In  that  interval,  you  have  a  fine 
chance  to  see  how  the  domestic  arrangements 
work.  You  get  an  inkling  of  the  family  disci- 
pline, and  find  out  on  the  spot  what  farmers' 
daughters  are  good  for.  Jane  "  draws  "  the 
tea;  Lucy  hunts  out  the  mince-pies,  slices  the 
bread,  keeps  the  cat  from  mischief  about  the 
hearth,  and  has  a  corner  of  her  twinkling  eye 
for  the  new  guest ;  while  Betsey  takes  care  of 
the  younger  children,  watches  to  see  that  the 
bread  does  not  burn  before  the  fire,  runs  here 
and  there  as  her  mother  calls,  and  keeps  an  eye 
on  the  stranger,  as  well  as  her  sister.  And  these 
three  buxom  rustic  Graces  form  a  truly  beau- 
tiful household  picture.  Father  sits  back  in 
his  corner  chair,  regarding  the  girls  with  secret 
delight ;  and  mother  bustles  about,  not  forget- 
ting to  throw  an  occasional  eye  to  the  stranger 
herself. 

The  girls  are  up  betimes  in  the  morning, 
with  a  window  wide  open  and  a  bed  soon 
made ;  and  in  the  summer  mornings  you  will 
see  them  everywhere  around  and  within  the 
house.  Sometimes  up  at  the  barn-yard  milk 
ing  a  favorite  cow,  —  or  throwing  corn  to  the 
ducks,  geese,  and  turkeys,  —  or  stuffing  dough 


314  HOMESPUN. 

down  the  gaping  throats  of  downy  chickens. 
They  are  gay  creatures  then,  —  romping  hoy- 
dens, with  cheeks  like  June  roses,  and  arms 
bared  to  sun  and  air.  It  would  be  no  such 
hard  work  to  fall  straight  in  love  with  them. 

If  cheese  is  making,  they  have  hands  to  dip 
into  the  crumbling  curd ;  or  if  butter,  their  fair 
arms  are  kneading  out  the  buttermilk  from  the 
golden  mass  as  deeply  as  they  can  thrust  them 
in.  Of  good,  substantial  housekeeping,  they 
know  just  all  that  is  worth  knowing,  from  start- 
ing a  fire  in  a  frosty  morning  to  basting  a 
goose  and  bringing  it  in  proper  trim  to  table. 
None  are  more  thoroughly  "  up  "  to  all  the  es- 
sential tricks  of  living.  Even  when  they  pour 
the  milk  from  the  pitcher,  as  you  sit  over 
against  them  at  the  table,  it  looks  and  sounds 
as  it  does  not  anywhere  else ;  your  lips  instinct- 
ively water  for  a  tumbler-full  before  it  is  set 
down  again  ;  and  ever  after,  when  you  think 
of  fresh  country  milk  and  cream,  it  is  along 
with  country  maids,  fair  arms,  and  ruddy  faces. 

It  is  at  the  Singing  School  where  our  buxom 
country  girl  finds  her  future  husband.  Nothing 
is  doing,  in  their  estimation,  unless  brisk  spark- 
ing is  going  on  ;  and  it  is  the  long  winters, 
with  their  sociable  evenings,  that  do  the  mis- 
chief. Then  it  is  that  Lucy  gets  a  beau  home 


FARMERS'  DAUGHTERS.  315 

rather  regularly,  and  her  not-so-fortunate  sis- 
ters of  course  laugh  at  her.  Afterwards,  if  her 
"  feller  "  feels  inclined  to  turn  it  into  serious 
business,  he  opens  with  a  course  of  carefully 
timed  visits,  varying  both  in  length  and  fre- 
quency, from  once  every  two  weeks  to  twice 
every  one  wee'k.  Sunday  offers  the  peculiarly 
favored  evening,  which,  in  the  country,  seems 
to  be  sacred  to  courtship.  Many  and  many  a 
Sunday  night  have  I  seen  a  single  lone  candle 
burning  in  this  house  and  that,  at  an  hour 
when  none  but  honest  travellers  and  legitimate 
lovers  had  any  moral  or  natural  right  to  be  out 
on  the  road. 

The  "  best  room  "  of  the  farmer's  house  is 
open  then,  though  both  sunshine  and  fire-light 
be  kept  out  through  the  rest  of  the  week. 
Passing  by  leisurely  and  a  little  scrutinizingly, 
one  might  distinctly  make  out  a  head  —  per- 
haps a  close  pair  of  them  —  firmly  set  on  a 
pair  of  good  shoulders,  across  the  paper  win- 
dow-shade, which  a  single  glance  tells  him  be- 
longs to  some  well-known  young  farmer-fellow 
who  lives  not  over  two  miles  off.  Besides,  there 
is  a  tired  horse  that  stands  patient  and  solitary 
before  the  gate-posts,  perhaps  with  a  big  checked 
blanket  sprawled  over  his  frame,  and  his  head 
dropping  down  between  his  knees  in  .drowsy 
meditation  on  this  sort  of  service. 


316  HOMESPUN. 

In  time,  courtship  leads  to  marriage  ;  it 
generally  does.  This  event,  in  the  family,  is 
the  cap-sheaf  of  all  others.  For  its  sake,  the 
household  willingly  consents  to  be  turned 
topsy-turvy.  Or,  if  it  is  resolved  to  be  as 
secret  as  possible  with  the  affair,  it  is  wonder- 
ful what  a  sight  of  pains  is  taken  to  bruit  it 
about.  These  little  secrets  are  the  best  known 
of  all  sorts  of  news.  Any  goose  could  guess 
in  a  minute  that  preparations  for  a  wedding 
were  going  on. 

And  a  Country  Wedding — let  me  tell  you, 
my  dear  friend  —  is  something  to  wish  to  live 
to  be  present  at.  No  make-believe  about  it ; 
but  a  hearty  affair,  to  which,  when  you  go,  you 
wish  with  untold  regrets  that  you  could  have 
stayed  a  good  while  longer.  It  is  not  so  much 
the  event  itself,  as  it  is  the  ceremonial  adjuncts 
in  the  way  of  fun  and  frolic,  that  makes  the 
time  pass  so  lightly  ;  all  the  imaginary  delights 
of  Mahomet's  paradise  pale  before  the  substan- 
tial pleasures  of  a  wedding  at  the  old  home- 
stead. There  is  a  vast  deal  of  kissing  done  at 
this  particular  time,  as  if  some  contagion  had 
broken  out  just  as  soon  as  the  minister  had  so 
solemnly  tied  the  knot  and  taken  his  fee.  And 
many  a  timid  and  bashful  pair,  naturally  shy 
about  exchanging  expressions  of  mutual  pref- 


FARMERS'  DAUGHTERS.  317 

erence,  suddenly  spruce  up  their  courage  on 
coming  to  take  parts  in  this  scene,  and  some- 
how "  pop  the  question  "  right  there  on  the 
spot,  without  pausing  to  think  what  hurt  them. 
Then  the  newly  married  couple  think  about 
"  settling  down  "  for  themselves  ;  if  they  con- 
clude not  to  "  go  out  West "  the  first  year,  the 
husband  either  settles  on  the  old  home-place 
under  his  father,  or  else  buys  or  hires  a  farm 
by  himself,  and  at  once  enters  on  his  work  as 
readily  as  a.  duckling  takes  to  water.  This  side 
of  the  picture  of  beginning  life,  as  some  of  the 
farmers'  girls  begin  it,  is  both  poetic  and  re- 
.  freshing.  It  has  such  a  flavor  of  good  sense, 
too.  These  are  the  girls  who  become  the 
mothers  of  our  MEN  ;  —  the  men  who  build 
our  steamships  and  lay  our  railways,  —  who 
are  to  raise  the  character  of  their  own  calling, 
—  on  whom  our  cities  make  regular  drafts  for 
the  brain,  and  bone,  and  sinew  by  which  they 
are  sustained  and  strengthened,  —  and  who 
carry  close  in  their  hearts  and  hands  the  hopes 
of  the  coming  years. 

Blessed  are  the  men  who  can  say  their 

mothers  were  country  girls.  They  at  least  are 
inheritors  of  health,  —  and,  in  these  days,  that 
is  something.  They  have  heard  something  in 
their  youth,  if  they  have  not  themselves  seen 


318 


HOMESPUN. 


it,  about  grass,  and  dew,  and  trees,  and  the 
sunrise  and  sunset ;  and  these  are  objects  that 
enter  a  great  deal  farther  into  the  heart  of 
human  nature  than  worldly  people,  with  poor 
souls,  are  apt  to  suppose. 


FARMERS'   SONS. 

SINCE  the  farmers  of  the  country  give  it 
substance  and  character  to-day,  we  may 
expect  their  sons  to  make  up  the  warp  and 
woof  of  the  community  that  is  to  flourish  after 
we  sleep  in  the  dust. 

In  the  city,  boys  are  nothing  like  what  boys 
used  to  be,  say  five-and-twenty  years  ago. 
They  begin  about  where  their  fathers  left  off. 
But,  back  in  the  country,  it  is  not  exactly  so. 
There  the  boys  start  nearly  as  their  fathers  — 
in  many  cases,  as  their  grandfathers  —  started 
before  them.  They  enjoy  a  few  more  privi- 
leges in  a  very  general  way,  to  be  sure ;  but 
still  they  are  forced  to  split  the  toughest  sort 
of  knots  for  their  early  living,  and  accustom 
themselves  to  hardships  and  privations  which 
to  city  youth  would  be  absolutely  unendur- 
able. 

A  farmer's  son  is  a  young  fellow  who  carries 
his  fortune  in  his  hand.  He  inherits  nothing, 
—  if  he  be  the  one  to  leave  the  paternal  roof, 


320  HOMESPUN. 

—  and    feels,    therefore,   that    he    has    every- 
thing to  make,  and  nothing  to  lose.     Disci- 
plined by  the  hard  knocks  to  which  he  has  been 
forced  to  submit,  and  toughened  by  the  con- 
stant exposure  to  all  sorts  of  luck  about  him, 
with  his  purpose  fixed  steadily  in  his  heart,  he 
pushes  along  in  life,  and  domes  out  somehow 

—  no  one  can  seem  to  tell  how  —  just  where 
nobody  ever  thought  he  would,  and  far  ahead 
of  the  point  which  richer  men's  sons  reach  be- 
hind him. 

The  farmer's  boy  has  a  hard  time  of  it  from 
the  beginning.  As  soon  as  he  is  big  enough 
to  be  trusted  out-doors  alone,  they  send  him  on 
errands  to  the  neighbors,  set  him  running  after 
the  cows,  make  him  carry  the  milk  and  the 
haymakers'  luncheon,  and  practise  all  manner 
of  ingenious  expedients  to  keep  him  out  of 
mischief  between  the  house  and  the  barn.  He 
is  an  article  of  no  particular,  but  of  very  gen- 
eral use.  In  the  house  and  out  of  the  house, 
he  never  fails  to  come  in  play. 

If  there  is  any  churning  to  be  done,  straight- 
way a  long  towel  is  rigged  about  his  neck,  and 
he  dashes  away  at  the  old-fashioned  churn  as 
if  he  were  in  pursuit  of  his  living  in  good  ear- 
nest. If  the  cattle  have  got  into  the  corn,  he 
takes  the  old  house-dog  and  sets  out  pell-mell 


FARMERS'   SONS.  321 

after  them,  with  a  whoop  and  hurrah  that 
echoes  all  about  the  yard.  If  the  paths  are  to 
be  shovelled  through  the  newly  fallen  snow,  lie 
plunges  in  head- foremost,  and  wallows  about 
till  he  is  whiter  than  a  venerable  miller,  from 
top  to  toe.  When  the  spring  winds  from  the 
south  begin  to  blow  over  the  hill-sides  and  up- 
lands, and  the  farmer  collects  his  forces  to  mark 
out  his  fields  in  long  and  billowy  furrows,  young 
Joe  climbs  to  the  back  of  gentle  Old  Dobbin, 
and  both  tug  together  patiently  from  morning 
till  night  to  turn  the  moist  earth  with  the  shin- 
ing ploughshare. 

The  work  of  the  farmer's  boy  is  never  done, 
though  it  begins  as  soon  as  his  father  calls  him 
in  the  morning.  He  washes  his  ruddy  face 
under  the  pump-spout,  in  the  summer  morn- 
ings, or  at  the  well  in  the  yard,  —  combs  his 
tangled  hair  with  any  sort  of  implement  that 
can  be  turned  to  such  account,  and  hurries  off 
to  the  cow-yard  to  help  about  the  milking.  In 
the  winter-time,  this  makes  cold  work  enough 
for  him,  as  he  will  testify  by  stamping  on  the 
barn-floor,  or  by  knocking  his  boots  together 
after  the  fashion  of  his  elders.  If  it  be  sum- 
mer, as  soon  as  all  the  milk-pails  have  been 
rilled,  he  starts  off,  whip  in  hand,  to  drive  the 
milky  mothers  to  the  distant  pasture,  and 


322  HOMESPUN. 

you  may  hear  the  sharp  crack  of  his  lash,  or 
the  shrill  echoes  of  his  voice,  for  a  long  way 
down  the  silent  country  road.  When  he  gets 
back  to  the  house,  his  feet  coated  with  sand, 
and  the  bottoms  of  his  trousers  bedraggled  in 
the  dew  and  grass,  he  has  the  stomach  for  just 
as  much  breakfast  as  they  choose  to  set  before 
him.  Sometimes  it  is  a  basin  of  bread-and- 
milk ;  sweet,  new  milk,  of  course,  and  bread 
as  brown  as  the  tanned  face  and  hands  he  ex- 
hibits at  the  table.  Oftentimes,  too,  a  bite  of 
cold  meat,  or  a  piece  of  pie,  to  "  top  off  with." 
Always  it  is  what  the  young  chap  knows  very 
well,  by  that  time,  how  to  eat,  and  eat  with 
all  the  zest  of  which  his  young  constitution  is 
capable. 

If  he  earns  a  few  odd  coppers,  now  and 
then,  by  running  of  errands  for  the  neighbors, 
and  can  take  such  good  care  of  them  as  that 
they  will  not  burn  in  his  pocket,  you  may  put 
your  hand  on  him  as  one  destined  to  be  a  rich 
man,  in  good  time,  even  if  he  comes  to  nothing 
more.  Sometimes,  however,  he  hoards  these 
meagre  earnings  but  for  the  annual  u  train- 
ings "  in  May  and  September ;  on  which  occa- 
sions he  makes  lavish  investments  in  card-gin- 
gerbread and  spruce  beer,  washing  down  huge 
semi-circular  bites  of  the  former  with  gulps  of 


FARMERS'  SONS.  323 

the  latter  that  would  well-nigh  choke  the  throat 
of  an  experienced  town-pump.  Or,  perhaps, 
he  lays  up  his  money  against  the  time  when 
he  shall  want  a  new  cap,  a  new  suit,  or  a  new 
pair  of  boots  to  begin  the  next  winter  in.  He 
is  taught  thrift  as  naturally  as  talking.  He 
observes  that  everybody  about  him  is  engaged 
in  bartering,  selling,  trading,  and  scheming  to 
"  make  things  go,"  and  he  catches  the  spirit  of 
the  practice  as  quick  as  he  would  bring  home 
the  measles  from  the  over-crowded  school-room. 
Those  of  his  own  household  teach  him  econ- 
omy as  soon  as  he  can  observe  and  reason. 
He  early  comes  to  find  that  his  battle  with  the 
world  will  be  single-handed,  that  the  opposi- 
tion will  never  relax,  and  that  he  will  have  to 
fight  to  the  end  to  keep  himself  where  men 
like  generally  to  be  thought  standing. 

All  the  smoky  maxims  that  pertain  to  domes- 
tic economy  and  advancement,  he  has  got  by 
heart ;  and,  mixed  and  jumbled  up  with  them, 
is  a  mass  of  "  Poor  Richard's  "  worldly  wisdom, 
which  makes  of  the  compound  a  body  of  axi- 
omatic truth  sufficient  to  stand  him  in  hand  for 
his  entire  lifetime.  Stories  which  his  great- 
grandfather used  to  tell  with  such  a  relish  in 
his  day,  are  stuffed  in  his  memory,  possibly  to 
be  set  afloat  again  on  a  current  of  tradition 


324  HOMESPUN. 

that  will  delight  his  own  children  and  great- 
grandchildren after  him. 

He  learns  the  history  of  the  old  French  "War 
and  the  Revolution  at  his  father's  fireside ;  and 
it  is  the  more  vividly  painted  to  his  imagina- 
tion with  the  aid  of  the  glowing  oak  and  hick- 
ory coals  wherein  he  strives  to  locate  the  stirring 
battle-scenes.  If  his  mother  be  the  mother  she 
should,  and  such  as  our  best  and  greatest  men 
have  had  from  the  beginning,  he  must  know  all 
about  the  Bible  history  in  his  very  earliest  days, 
and  can  probably  tell  you  more  even  than  you 
find  you  know  yourself  of  Saul  and  David,  and 
Samuel,  and  Joshua,  and  Absalom,  and  the 
prophet  Daniel,  and  Queen  Esther,  and  the 
carrying  away  into  captivity.  The  old  Dutch 
tiles  about  the  fireplace  are  not,  to  be  sure,  to 
be  found  in  the  homestead  whence  he  springs, 
but  he  holds  as  many  pictures  as  were  ever 
etched  on  them,  ineradically  impressed  upon 
his  youthful  heart. 

In  summer,  he  rarely  thinks  of  going  to 
school  after  reaching  his  twelfth  or  fifteenth 
year,  but  buckles  down  to  the  busy  season's 
work  with  as  much  energy  as  the  best  of  them. 
First  comes  planting  :  that  is,  the  fences  hav- 
ing been  previously  repaired,  and  the  stones 
carefully  picked  off  the  mowing-lands.  Then 


FARMERS'  SONS,  325 

it  is  hoeing ;  once,  twice,  thrice,  when  he 
makes  his  young  back  ache  long  before  bed- 
time, trying  to  keep  up  with  the  older  hands 
on  the  farm.  Then,  haying;  and  this  is  the 
year's  carnival  to  him.  No  impatient  chap  in 
school  looks  forward  more  wistfully  to  the 
"  letting  out ;  "  and  he  watches  with  wonder- 
ful closeness  the  clover  and  timothy  as  it 
ripens,  and  listens  with  such  a  gush  of  glad 
sympathy  to  the  quail  that  whistles  on  the  rail 
that  rides  the  wall  of  the  mowing-lot,  and  keeps 
asking  and  asking  when  the  sharpened  scythe  is 
going  to  be  put  in.  All  the  morning,  at  this 
time,  he  stands  and  turns  the  grindstone  for 
the  mowers ;  runs  about  the  barns  and  out- 
buildings for  some  implement  that  has  myste- 
riously gone  astray ;  assists  in  harnessing  the 
horses,  and  yoking  and  unyoking  the  cattle ; 
carries  the  luncheons  down  into  the  hay-fields ; 
rakes  after  the  cart ;  turns  the  hay  while  it  is 
curing ;  and  frolics  with  dogs  and  boys,  toward 
night,  among  the  haycocks  that  dot  the  field, 
till  his  head  swims  almost  too  much  to  permit 
him  to  remember  his  own  name. 

In  the  very  last  days  of  July,  and  along 
through  the  month  of  August,  he  is  busy  be- 
yond telling  among  the  huckleberry  bushes  and 
blackberry  vines.  He  secures  quart  upon  quart 


326  HOMESPUN. 

of  these  luscious  fruits,  sometimes  toiling  in 
the  company  of  nothing  but  his  bread-and- 
cheese  luncheon  from  the  dewy  sunrise  till  the 
fading  sunset.  He  brings  home  stained  fingers 
and  full  baskets,  as  the  best  proofs  of  his  indus- 
try and  perseverance.  The  berries  not  needed 
for  family  use  he  is  permitted  to  sell ;  and  the 
aggregate  of  these  proceeds  of  his  merchandis- 
ing would  be  very  likely  to  surprise  you. 

Baskets-full  are  lifted  on  to  the  stage-driver's 
box,  every  morning  when  he  passes  over  the 
road  ;  and  the  driver  is  as  exact  in  making 
change  for  him  as  if  he  were  an  accredited 
agent  of  the  Rothschilds  or  the  Barings.  Few 
are  the  delights  which  summer  offers  him  so 
unalloyed  for  his  young  heart  as  these  of  his 
excursions  in  the  pastures  for  berries.  He 
always  loves,  in  after  life,  to  revert  to  these 
days  of  innocence,  and  lingers  on  them  with 
the  whole  tenderness  of  his  nature.  When  he 
comes  to  manhood  and  the  carking  cares  of 
the  world's  business,  how  many  times  he 
wishes  he  could  but  go  barefoot  once  more 
as  he  used  to  do  among  the  bushes  and  along 
the  river's  bank,  inspired  with  the  most  truly 
independent  feeling  of  which  his  heart  was 
then,  or  since  has  been  capable. 

A  deal  of  boyish  love,  too,  is  made  in  these 


FARMERS'   SONS.  327 

halcyon  days ;  under  the  apple-trees,  and  by 
the  concealing  stone  walls,  or  in  the  dark 
shadows  of  a  young  walnut-tree,  while  Susy, 
or  Lucy,  or  Jane  is  trying  to  pick  the  berries 
from  the  bushes  he  has  broken  for  one  of  them. 
Many  a  tender  little  heart  gives  itself  away  for- 
'ever  in  the  midst  of  these  sweet  seclusions, 
shaping  its  whole  future  life  by  the  heedless 
but  innocent  impulses  of  the  hour. 

Through  these  summer  days,  the  farmer's 
boy  is  kept  at  work  as  long  as  there  is  any  light 
for  him  to  see  by ;  and  then,  with  a  stomach 
fall  of  bread-and-milk,  he  goes  off  tired  and 
staggering  to  bed.  A  king  might  envy  him  his 
golden  sleep,  for  then  it  is  he  is  a  king  himself. 
If  such  sweet  and  dewy  slumber  would  but  fall 
on  his  lids  when  he  becomes  a  man ! 

When  the  Harvest  Time  approaches,  he  feels 
that  the  end  of  his  hard  labor  is  drawing  nigh. 
He  counts  up  the  turkeys  to  see  what  Thanks- 
giving is  likely  to  offer  in  the  shape  of  prom- 
ises. He  looks  impatiently  forward  to  the  day 
when  school  will  begin  for  the  winter  in  the 
little  school-house  at  the  fork  of  the  roads,  and 
wonders  who  is  to  be  the  lucky  man  to  teach 
and  flog  the  boys  of  the  district  during  the 
winter. 

As  he  stalks  through  the  fall  stubble,  he  tears 


328  HOMESPUN. 

his  tender  ankles  and  cuts  his  naked  feet  with 
its  bristling  edges,  and  goes  too  often  bleeding 
to  bed.  Then,  he  has  corn-stalks  to  cut  and 
stack  ;  potatoes  to  dig  and  lug  to  the  cart;  tur- 
nips to  pull  till  his  hands  feel  like  a  bed  of  net- 
tles ;  and  all  the  odd  jobs  and  chores  to  attend 
to  that  concern  house  and  barn  together.  Burs 
get  worked  into  his  hair,  and  cockles  stick  all 
over  his  clothes.  His  feet  are  bruised  and  sore, 
and  he  goes  with  a  limp  that  compels  pity  at 
sight. 

His  winters  are  devoted  to  his  schooling. 
He  usually  has  four  months  of  it ;  and  this  suf- 
fices him  until  he  comes  to  manhood,  when  he 
can  do  as  much  or  as  little  for  himself  as  he 
chooses.  He  sits  in  a  tight  room,  that  is  alter- 
nately as  hot  as  an  oven  and  as  cold  as  an  ice- 
house; cons  his  lessons  in  the  humming  style 
of  the  old  times;  repeats  them  with  all  the 
nasalities  and  pedantic  mannerisms  taught  him 
by  the  "  master  ; "  has  chilblains  regularly, 
which  he  digs  and  pounds  through  his  boots  in 
the  afternoons ;  and  thus  worries  through  a 
winter  after  methods  he  is  taught  to  consider 
at  least  improving,  if  not  intellectual. 

Of  a  life  like  this,  our  city  boys  know  noth- 
ing at  all.  When  the  young  representatives 
of  the  two  styles  of  existence  chance  to  meet, 


FARMERS'   SONS.  32S 

it  is  chiefly  to  eye  one  the  other  with  envy  and 
contempt,  and  to  keep  their  sympathies  wide 
apart  until  they  reach  manhood.  The  country 
lad  gapes  and  stares  at  the  wonders  of  the 
town,  and  the  city  youth  asks  what  kind  of 
wood  hickory  is,  and  supposes  every  farmer's 
barn-yard  keeps  at  least  one  cow  on  purpose  to 
give  cream. 

Nearly  all  the  foremost  men  in  our  large 
cities  were  once  farmers'  boys.  They  left  home 
in  quest  of  their  fortunes;  and  it  is  just  such 
excellent  qualities  as  they  bring  with  their 
characters,  that  enrich  our  cities  with  the  real 
wealth  that  holds  them  fast  and  firm. 

In  his  homespun  suit,  therefore,  barefooted 
and  gaping,  the  Farmer's  Boy  is  not  to  be  de- 
spised ;  no,  nor  overlooked  even.  What  he 
lacks  is  Opportunity.  When4  that  comes  to 
him,  he  makes  a  fit  career  for  himself  without 
a  great  deal  of  assistance.  If  he  stays  behind 
and  cultivates  the  old  farm,  taking  good  care 
of  the  "  old  folks  "  in  their  age,  he  still  acts  his 
part  well,  and  merits  our  true  cgmmendation. 
He  is  emphatically  a  son  of  the  brightest 
promise,  and  his  inheritance  in  our  country  is 
rich  enough  to  make  all  other  men  envious. 


^^*SSs^*l 


THE  HIRED   MAN. 

|3ERHAPS,  on  the  whole,  it  is  better  that 
-t  all  our  agriculturists  are  not  born  with  a 
farm  to  their  hands,  as  some  other  men  are  said 
to  be,  with  a  "  silver  spoon  in  their  mouth." 
Many,  if  not  most  of  them,  are  obliged  to 
study  all  the  economies  and  strain  every  energy 
to  secure  the  coveted  prize  at  all ;  but,  putting 
this  single  prize  before  them,  they  think,  care, 
and  live  for  nothing  else,  save  to  reach  th 
limit  of  their  aims  just  as  quickly  as  they  can 
Early  and  late,,  in  sickness  and  in  health,  ii. 
season  and  out  of  season,  by  self-denials  and 
sacrifices  uncounted,  by  patience  and  a  per- 
severance that  never  faints  through  loneliness 
and  personal  privation,  they  labor  hard  to  the 
end,  like  gold-hunters  for  the  buried  gift  that  is 
to  flood  their  world  with  sunshine.  No  man 
can  tell  them,  either,  how  many  cents  make  a 
dollar,  nor  how  many  dollars  it  is  going  to  take 
to  buy  the  farm  on  which  they  have  set  their 
hopes  and  hearts. 


THE  HIRED  MAN.  331 

Since  the  great  West  has  opened  wide  its 
gates,  the  laboring  men  who  fight  these  hand- 
to-hand  battles  with  Fortune,  have  nearly  all 
become  emigrants,  seeking  the  easier  road  to 
competence  that  lay  open  to  them  there ;  yet 
plenty  are  left  behind  to  maintain  the  charac- 
ter of  the  old  class,  and  to  illustrate  the  names 
of  such  as  I  am  about  to  describe. 

When  a  working-man  lets  himself  out  to  a 
Northern  farmer,  he  contracts  generally  for  the 
season  of  farm-work,  —  which  includes  plant- 
ing, hoeing,  haying,  and  harvesting,  —  or  else 
makes  his  bargain  for  the  year.  In  the  first 
instance,  he  gets  from  twelve  to  sixteen  dol- 
lars per  month,  with  his  board,  —  or,  if  he  en- 
joys a  local  reputation  for  being  "  uncommonly 
likely  help,"  he  can  command  even  more ;  since 
a  good  man's  services  are  worth  more  in  hay- 
ing-time than  in  any  other  season.  But  if  he 
lets  himself  by  the  year,  as  a  good  share  of 
farmers'  help  do,  he  rarely  rises  beyond  twelve 
dollars  a  month,  with  board  added.  During 
much  of  the  winter  season,  a  working-man's 
help  is  of  little  value.  The  most  he  can  do  is 
to  milk,  go  to  mill,  chop  and  haul  wood,  and 
do  the  chores  about  the  house.  The  women 
call  on  him  to  go  out  and  fetch  in  a  forestick, 
or  roll  in  a  backlog.  Sometimes  he  sits  down 


332  HOMESPUN. 

on  a  stool  and  churns  for  them.  Sometimes  it 
is  one  thing,  and  sometimes  another.  He  may 
be  always  busy,  but  his  work  is  nowise  hard, 
and  makes  little  or  no  show  of  immediate  ad- 
vantage to  his  employer. 

Much  of  the  farmers'  help,  at  the  present 
time,  is  made  up  of  Irish  laborers,  —  the  un- 
adulterated, unqualified  bog-trotters  of  their 
native  land.  Yet  they  have  not  altogether 
crowded  Yankee  laborers  out  of  the  field;  they 
have  hardly  more  than  stepped  into  the  vacan- 
cies created  by  the  Western  fever  that  has 
carried  so  many  off.  Our  farmers  can  do  no 
better  than  to  hire  them.  Now  and  then,  one 
turns  up  a  prize,  but  the  bulk  of  them  would 
as  soon  plant  their  potatoes  in  pits,  on  the  day 
they  handle  their  wages  and  leave,  as  on  the 
day  they  first  landed.  In  harnessing  a  horse, 
they  would  as  soon  throw  the  breeching  over 
his  head  as  over  that  part  of  his  body  which  is 
ornamented  with  the  tail. 

The  life  of  the  native  hired-man,  drudg- 
ing and  wearisome  as  it  looks  to  the  careless 
observer,  is  still  full  of  hope  and  buoyancy.  He 
is  not  the  friendless,  melancholy,  pitiful  crea- 
ture you  may  take  him  for.  While  he  sits 
there  in  the  chimney-corner  of  the  old  kitchen, 
telling  stories  to  the  boys  in  a  low  tone,  so  as 


THE  HIRED  MAN.  333 

not  to  be  overheard,  the  honest  blaze  of  the  fire 
shining  out  over  his  bronzed  face,  he  is  as  much 
a  king  and  lord  as  the  man  of  the  acres  who 
hires  him.  He  keeps  no  cares  on  his  mind,  but 
can  take  his  candle  and  go  off  to  bed  in  his 
stocking-feet  with  the  certainty  of  sleeping  as 
soundly  as  the  house-dog  before  the  fire.  Pos- 
sibly he  thinks  of  Home;  but  it  only  makes 
him  all  the  more  determined  and  resolute  to 
work  out,  somehoiu,  a  home  of  his  own. 

In  his  mind,  the  future  is  mapped  out  as  dis- 
tinctly as  any  man's.  He  counts  over  his  sav- 
ings almost  every  day,  knows  just  how  much 
he  put  aside  last  month,  how  much  he  will  this 
month,  and  what  amount  still  stands  between 
the  present  day  and  that  on  which  he  will  real- 
ize his  desires.  He  is  ever  hopeful ;  and,  being 
hopeful,  of  course  cheerful.  The  children  love 
to  hang  around  him,  and  you  can  hardly  drive 
them  away.  Chestnuts,  walnuts,  slippery-elm 
bark,  or  something  else,  he  has  for  all  of  them. 
He  can  tell  them  stories,  or  sing  and  whistle 
for  them.  Ghost-stories  are  his  especial  hobby, 
as  they  are  likewise  the  delight  of  the  younger 
ones,  who  swarm  at  his  chair  like  bees  at  the 
doors  of  their  hive.  In  their  eyes,  he  is  the 
wonder  of  a  hero,  and  they  really  believe  his 
past  experience  is  such  as  was  never  paralleled. 


334  HOMESPUN. 

He  sleeps  in  a  chamber  off  by  himself,  gen- 
erally over  the  kitchen,  —  small  and  scantily 
furnished,  with  not  a  sign  of  a  carpet  on  the 
floor,  and  perhaps  only  a  bit  of  a  broken  mir- 
ror tacked  against  the  wall.  The  rats  and 
mice  run  at  random  about  his  head  through 
the  long  nights  of  winter,  kicking  up  racket 
enough  to  rain  down  the  ceiling,  but  not  dis- 
turbing him.  He  has  earned  his  sleep,  and 
not  even  a  brigade  of  rats,  racing  like  cavalry 
horses,  can  cheat  him  out  of  its  possession. 

None  are  so  weather-wise  as  he.  He  prog- 
nosticates with  vastly  more  accuracy  than  the 
wooden  vane  on  the  barn-gable,  and  knows  as 
much  about  storms  of  snow  and  rain  as  the 
clerk  of  the  weather  himself.  It  is  his  forte,  in 
Virgil's  phrase  — 

"  Ventos  et  varium  cceli  prsediscere  morem." 

The  women  go  to  him  to  know  if  it  will  do  to 
wash  to-morrow,  and  if  it  is  likely  to  turn  out 
good  drying  weather.  He  knows  all  the 
clouds  "  like  a  book  ;  "  and  stands  behind  the 
house  at  sunset,  and  studies  their  signs  like  a 
scholar  before  an  algebraic  problem  on  the 
blackboard.  At  such  times,  he  seems  to  bear 
a  close  relation  to  the  mysteries  of  Nature,  as 
if  he  might  have  been  chosen  —  without  others 
knowing  it  —  their  high-priest  and  interpreter 


THE  HIRED  MAN.  335 

The  children  think  so,  at  any  rate.  They  be- 
lieve that  if  ever  any  man  knew  it  all,  it  is  he. 
And  why  ought  it  not  to  be  as  they  believe  ? 
He  studies  with  the  confidence  of  simplicity, 
and  trusts  with  all  the  faith  of  a  child. 

Perhaps  there  is  a  ruddy  maid-servant  living 
under  the  same  roof.  Perhaps,  again,  he  has 
a  "  hankerin'  notion  "  after  that  ruddy  maid- 
servant. If  so,  the  history  of  a  single  winter's 
sparking  campaign  at  the  kitchen  fireplace  is 
worthy  to  employ  the  pen  that  sketched  the 
immortal  siege  of  the  Widow  Wadman,  — 
she  with  the  troublesome  eye.  How  he  sits 
and  pares  apples  over  the  same  bowl  with  her, 
his  hand  touching  her  hand  now  and  then,  and 
her  cheeks  vieing  with  the  very  glow  that  lies 
abed  beneath  the  forestick !  How  coyly  she 
busies  herself  over  the  stocking  she  is  knitting, 
casting  occasional  sheep's-eyes  over  at  him, 
and  persuading  her  thumping  heart  that  he  is 
a  fine,  stout,  strapping  farmer  fellow,  after  all, 
and  would  make  her  one  of  the  best  of  hus- 
bands —  if  she  can  but  secure  him  ! 

How  sharp  she  watches  him  while  he  whit- 
tles, wondering  what  it  can  be  he  is  making  for 
the  boys,  and  secretly  wishing  he  would  take 
it  in  his  head  to  carve  out  some  trifling  keep- 
sake for  her  ! 


336  HOMESPUN. 

But  before  winter  is  done,  he  and  she  have 
managed  to  establish  a  good  many  confi- 
dences. He  has  let  out  some  of  his  ulterior 
plans  in  life  to  her,  and  she  has  seen  fit  to  be 
equally  candid  with  him.  These  little  recitals 
have  had  the  effect,  of  course,  to  draw  both 
closer  together,  and  to  make  a  sort  of  joint- 
stock  of  their  general  sentiments.  While  he 
has  been  holding  skeins  of  yarn  for  her  to 
wind,  there  is  no  telling  how  many  times  their 
eyes  have  exchanged  expressive  glances,  nor 
what  he  may  have  dropped  to  her  in  a  low 
voice,  as  often  as  the  thread  got  entangled. 
When  they  both  sat  and  stared  at  the  glowing 
bed  of  coals  at  night,  it  is  easy  enough  to  con- 
jecture that  they  saw  a  house  and  lands  all 
pictured  out  in  the  fiery  mass,  and  to  infer 
that,  concerning  that  house,  they  had  indulged 
in  many  interesting  speculations.  If  each 
chanced  to  like  the  other,  the  road  to  a  match 
was  smooth  and  easy;  but  if  the  partiality 
was  developed  as  yet  but  on  one  side,  it  was 
indescribably  amusing  to  watch  the  turns,  the 
shifts,  the  innocent  prevarications,  and  the 
daily  manosuvring,  that  were  employed  to 
stimulate  the  esteem  of  the  dilatory  party. 
Sly  hints  —  unseen  kindnesses  —  long  breaths 
and  sighs  —  sidelong  glances  —  and  melan- 


THE  HIRED  MAN.  337 

choly  looks  were  put  under  tribute  with  all 
possible  industry,  and  kept  in  constant  and 
vigorous  use  until  the  field  was  finally  won. 

The  hired  man  reads  the  agricultural  papers 
now ;  once,  he  would  never  have  thought  of 
such  a  thing.  Instead  of  being  kept  down  to 
firelight,  he  has  the  use  of  a  candle ;  and  there 
is  many  and  many  a  hard-working  fellow  who 
had  not  a  dollar  with  which  to  face  the  round 
world  at  the  start,  saving  what  he  made 
through  the  day,  and  treasuring  up  what  he 
read  at  night,  who  now  owns  his  farm  clear  of 
mortgages  of  any  grade,  and  wields  an  honest 
influence  second  to  that  of  no  man  in  his  lo- 
cality. He  did  it  simply  by  persevering :  that 
is  the  way  the  soft  water-drops  wear  holes  in 
the  hard  rock,  at  last.  He  did  it  by  shutting 
out  every  other  thought  and  purpose  from  his 
view,  and  pursuing  only  that  object  which  he 
had  thus  set  before  himself  in  his  early  youth. 
He  made  up  his  mind,  with  God's  blessing,  to 
reach  his  mark,  and  he  reached  it.  Any  one 
can  conquer,  in  the  battle  of  life,  if  he  buckles 
on  his  armor  in  a  similar  spirit. 

If  he  earns  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  each 
year,  with  his  board  added,  he  means  to  save 
a  hundred  and  twenty-five  of  it,  if  he  can. 
Plenty  of  them  do  it,  too.  In  this  patient 


338  HOMESPUN. 

way,  working  year  in  and  year  out  with  un- 
flagging perseverance,  he  presently  manages  to 
make  a  beginning  towards  his  farm,  and  is 
willing  to  buy  with  a  mortgage  on  his  shoul- 
ders, trusting  to  good  health  and  hard  work 
to  redeem  his  indebtedness  and  enable  him 
to  stand  clear  of  all  incumbrances  finally. 
Whether  he  pays  down  five,  seven,  or  ten 
hundred  dollars  to  begin  with,  he  means  to 
clear  up  his  bushes  and  mortgages  as  fast  as 
he  can,  and  be  at  length  his  own  master. 

Or,  he  sometimes  only  hires  a  farm,  and 
stocks  it  with  the  means  he  has  managed  to 
scrape  together.  In  such  case,  he  takes  to 
wife  the  girl  whom  he  has  all  along  been 
courting  at  the  kitchen  fire,  and  they  at  once 
move  in  and  set  up  housekeeping.  The  elder 
farmers,  of  assured  estates,  show  him  a  good 
deal  of  patronage  at  meeting  and  in  the  store, 
addressing  him  by  his  Christian  name  and 
asking  him  how  he  is  getting  along.  But  his 
upper  lip  takes  on  more  decided  expression  as 
year  is  added  to  year,  and  he  lives  along  with 
nursing  his  silent  resolution  to  be  even  with 
them  by  and  by.  It  is  nothing  —  the  whole 
of  it  —  but  a  struggle  for  money,  just  as  the 
boys  strive  for  marbles  and  jack-straws  ;  and  it 
is  off  the  same  piece,  out  in  the  sweet  country, 


THE  HIRED  MAN.  339 

that  one  studies  the  pattern  of  so  closely,  in 
hustling  Wall  Street. 

Few,  however,  get  to  be  forehanded  very 
soon,  in  hiring  a  farm  in  this  way ;  all  who 
do  must  needs  be  most  industrious  workers. 
They  must  keep  at  it  from  cock-crow  till  early 
moonrise,  the  year  round.  They  have  to  work 
hard,  eat  hard,  and  sleep  hard ;  it  is  the  hard 
dollars  they  are  after.  Even  all  this  will  not 
secure  the  prize,  health  being  thrown  in  beside, 
unless  intelligence  presides  at  the  board,  and 
gives  shape  to  their  industry.  They  must 
keep  fully  abreast  with  the  times,  at  any  rate ; 
and  these  are  the  most  wide-awake  times  the 
world  was  ever  confused  with  yet.  They 
must  know  a  little  something  about  the  results 
of  experiments  in  agricultural  chemistry.  They 
must  be  ready  to  adopt  the  real  improvements 
in  agricultural  machinery.  They  cannot  be 
unmindful  of  the  best  theories  relative  to  the 
rotation  of  crops,  and  the  soundest  ideas  rela- 
tive to  manures.  They  must  be  ready  to  as- 
sail the  buried  wealth  of  their  swamp  lands, 
and  drag  up  the  hidden  gold  to  the  surface. 
Artificial  irrigation,  too,  will  pay  for  attending 
to,  that  promising  fields  may  not  yearly  be  left 
to  burn  up  and  perish.  They  must  sit  down 
and  estimate  the  practical  value,  to  them,  of 


340  HOMESPUN. 

root  culture  in  furnishing  feed  for  stock,  in  its 
combination  with  the  old-style  rules  of  provid- 
ing animal  subsistence  in  plenty.  They  are  to 
understand,  at  the  start,  the  nature  of  their 
soils,  —  what  they  lack,  and  how  and  in  what 
quantities  the  lack  is  best  supplied.  Nor  may 
they  quite  shut  their  eyes  to  the  plain  road  to 
competency  by  the  raising  of  orchard  fruits  — 
apples,  pears,  and  quinces ;  this  is  a  mine  of 
wealth  which  our  farmers  have  been  too  slow 
to  go  and  open.  They  must  think  it  either  pot- 
tering or  dangerous.  When  they  once  wake 
up  to  it  as  an  important  item  in  their  own 
business,  our  unsupplied  millions  will  have 
fruit  enough  to  become  both  juicier  and  health- 
ier than  now. 

The  hired  man's  life,  with  our  Northern 
farmers,  is  but  an  apprenticeship.  Some  of 
them  emerge  from  it  to  pass  to  the  dignity  of 
proprietorship ;  while  a  great  many  more  con- 
tinue in  harness,  tugging  at  the  traces,  and 
dragging  out  a  solitary  existence  to  the  end  of 
their  days.  They  lie  about,  here  and  there, 
jobbing  as  the  opportunity  offers ;  laboring 
one  season  in  this  place,  and  another  season  in 
that ;  now  laying  by  a  trifle,  and  now  saving 
scarce  a  penny;  good-natured  and  trustful 
generally ;  as  dry  and  smoky  as  the  soot  that 


THE  HIRED  MAN.  341 

collects  about  their  favorite  chimney-corners ; 
troubling  themselves  nowise  with  care  or  am- 
bition ;  as  full  of  gossip  as  old  ladies  over  their 
fragrant  Oolong  decoctions,  and  addicted  to  a 
garrulousness  that,  to  all  the  children  where 
they  go,  is  as  delightful  as  a  new  story-book. 
Bachelors  they  live,  and  bachelors  they  die; 
and,  as  a  matter  of  course,  living  but  half  their 
-  natural  days. 

Odd  sticks  in  the  bundle  they  are,  incapable 
of  being  either  tied  up  or  assorted.  Needful 
to  the  farmer,  yet  profitless,  so  far  as  results 
reach,  to  themselves.  A  happy,  hard-working, 
necessary,  favorite  class  of  men. 


THE  TURKEY  NEST 

OUT  in  the  lots,  just  under  the  edge 

Of  some  birches  that  hide  a  ragged  ledge, 

An  old  hen  turkey  has  made  a  nest 

Of  dried  oak-leaves  about  her  breast, 

And  there  she  sits  by  herself  all  day, — 

Sits  and  sits  from  April  to  May. 

She  has  stolen  off  from  the  flock  at  home, 

And  out  to  this  lonely  spot  has  come 

To  raise,  unseen,  her  summer  brood 

Of  speckled  poults  in  the  sweet  green  wood. 

The  boys  have  all  in  vain  essayed 

To  find  where  the  sly  and  secret  old  jade 

Her  nest  of  eggs  has  securely  laid ; 

And  the  gobbler  saunters  off  all  alone, 

To  see  where  the  lady  has  really  gone  :  — 

But  there  she  sits  on  her  spotted  eggs, 

Heaped  up  so  warm  beneath  her  legs. — 

Sits  under  her  thatch  of  pale  green  leaves, 

That  shed  the  drops  like  a  farmer's  eaves, 

Through  damps  and  mists  and  cloudy  weather, 

Without  ever  so  much  as  wetting  a  feather, 

In  the  midst  of  the  music  of  April  rains, 

And  the  bursting  of  flowers  all  over  the  plains, 


THE   TURKEY  NEST.  343 

And  the  sweet  green  grass,  that  steadily  creeps 
Across  the  meadows  and  up  to  the  steeps,  — 
Sits  and  watches,  and  sits  and  sleeps. 

Her  liquid  eye,  so  full  and  so  bright, 

Is  like  some  jewel  that 's  swimming  with  light ; 

And  everywhere  in  its  great  round  rim 

Is  packed  with  motherly  love  to  the  brim. 

She  spies  the  hawk  in  his  highest  flight, 

And  the  thieving  skunk  in  the  darkest  night; 

And  when  the  owl  whoops  out  its  cry, 

She  winks  and  blinks  and  looks  up  at  the  sky, 

Crooning  her  fierce  anxiety. 

What  is  she  thinking  of,  lone  squatter  there, 

Thinking   and  winking,  through  foul  and  through 

.fair? 

Squirrels  chattering  up  in  the  trees, 
Pirates  of  crows  bearing  down  in  the  breeze, 
Portly  old  wookchucks  passing  her  door  — 
Now  on  their  hind-feet,  and  now  on  all  four ; 
Eabbits  listening  to  hear  where  's  the  noise 
That  comes  from   the  dogs  in  the  wood  with   the 

boys  ; 

Robins  in  haste,  with  their  mouths  full  of  mud, 
Dug  from  the  marge  of  some  little  spring  flood  ; 
Brown  thrushes  pouring  melodious  notes, 
Not  all  their  own,  but  from  out  their  own  throats ; 
A  fox,  now  and  then,  flitting  by  like  a  ghost, 
And  a  chipmonk  laughing  to  see  the  scamp  post; 
Bumble-bees  leaving  a  long  trail  of  song, 


344  HOMESPUN. 

And  gay-coated  insects,  a  murmuring  throng; 

Runlets  trickling  from  ledge  to  ledge 

To  water  the  roots  of  sprouting  sedge ; 

All  patterns  of  clouds  on  the  blue  of  the  sky, 

Woven  by  shuttles  that  wind-fingers  ply,  — 

All    through    the    Spring    nights,    out    under    the 

stars, 

Orion  or  Pleiades,  Venus  or  Mars, 
She    thinks,    and    she   winks,    with    her   motherly 

breast 
Down  on  the  heap  of  her  warm  treasures  pressed. 

She    thinks    of   the    chicks    that    will    start    and 

run,  — 

Eighteen,  twenty,  or  twenty-one,  — 
Of  how  they  will  troop  with  her  off  in  the, dews, 
Yawping  till  even -her  heart  they  confuse, 
Up  the  green  hill-sides,  through  forests  of  ferns, 
And    down    where    the    little    brook    tangles   and 

turns, 

Roaming  at  will  through  the  long  summer  day, 
From   the  moment  the   dawn   bids  them  up   and 

away, 
And   sleeping  at  night  where  the  night  overtakes 

them, 
Huddled   and   safe   in    the   bed   that    she    makes 

them, 

Till,  waxing  in  strength,  they  scale  the  stone  walls, 
And  on  all  the  farmers  make  regular  calls, — 
Now  hid  in  their  corn-fields,  now  trampling  their 

oats, 


THE   TURKEY  NEST.  345 

Skulking,  and  yelping,  and  cramming  their  throats,  — 
In  the  woods,  after  acorns  just  out  of  the  cup, 
Off  in  the  lots,  snapping  grasshoppers  up, 
Getting   thick   on    the   thighs    and    stout   on  the 

breast, 
And  seeming  to  see  which  will  turn  out  the  best. 

And  the  old  turkey  thinks  that  the  time  then  will 

come, 

When    through    the    still   woods   sounds    the   par- 
tridge's drum, 
The    chill    autumn   nights    will    give    hints    to   go 

home ; 

When  up  in  the  apple-trees  near  the  back-door, 
With  sky  for  a  roof  and  bare  boughs  for  a  floor, 
Or  perched  on  the  ridge  of  the  barn  or  the  shed, 
All  squat  in  a  row,  head  close  up  to  head, 
They  doze  through  the  nights  till   the  first  streak 

of  dawn 
Calls  them  down  from  their  roosts  for  their  ration 

of  corn. 
And,   soon    after,   comes  the    good    Thanksgiving 

Day, 
When  the  winter  of  age   takes  the  green    on  of 

May, 

And  all  spirits  are  back  in  the  homestead  at  play : 
Upon  the  long  table  that 's  spread  in  the  room, 
Padded  out  with  many  a  savory  crumb, 
Heads   off  their    shoulders    and   wings  skewered 

down, 


346  HOMESPUN. 

Legs  in  the  air  and  breasts  roasted  brown, — 
There  lie   two  of  these   poults,   each   on  a  broad 

platter, 
While  over  them  rings  the  loud  family  clatter. 

And  but  to  the  end  of  this  glad  sacrifice 
To  the  annual  call  of  the  Home  Deities, 
Do  the  chicks  ever  pick  through  the  walls  of 

their  shell, 
Or  grow  fat  in  the  woods,  on  the   steelyards   to 

tell 
What  a  weight  of  sweet  meat  they  are   able  to 

score, 

And  bring  it  upon  their  own  backs  to  the  door, 
As  turkeys  have  done,  generations  before : 
The  Thanksgiving  feast  would  be  no  great  affair, 
Except  this  dear  carcass  were  prominent  there ; 
Of  the  "  fat  and  the  sweet "  that  help  give  the  day 

zest, 
The   choicest    part    comes  from    the   old  Turkey 

Nest. 


THE    END. 


V 


«•  ju  JOT-MI  r 


urr 


A*H!BRARY0,.. 

Si  (rri 


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